


Not Created Equal

by coudric



Series: Heroes [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Quirks (My Hero Academia), Angst, Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-07-18 23:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16128998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coudric/pseuds/coudric
Summary: [Semi-AU] In a world in which some people were gifted with special abilities, admitting to having those could, depending on where you are, mean social suicide.It all started with someone leaking information on Philippe Coutinho having a quirk - prompting Luka to go public as well, and in a fit of foolish support for their captain other Croatian players followed suit. The chaos that ensued was one big, ugly mess. Ivan just wished other national teams would be stupid enough to do the same just so they weren't the only ones suffering.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on something else and tried not to indulge this idea, but then I read something and before I could second guess, I had already jotted down the draft of the first part. Honestly, this story is just me digging into my Croatia NT obsession with other players and teams (mainly their clubs) thrown into the mix. You don't need to know anything about BnHA to understand this - I just borrowed the ideas of "quirks" (which really are super-powers) into a world where it's the minority having them. I'll be updating the tags as the plot progresses; obviously there will be more players coming up and more relationships explored than just the Rakidric dynamics (even if I might be slightly biased, lol).
> 
> I'll also (hopefully?) post snippets of a complete BnHA AU which I've been writing for the fun of it (hence, why this is tagged a series) - in case anyone's interested! On that note, I hope some of you might enjoy this :)
> 
> If you have questions or suggestions (e.g. quirks for certain players) or just want to talk you can also find me on tumblr: [tindric](https://tindric.tumblr.com/)

_A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out_.  
\- Walter Winchell 

 

When he had been a child, Ivan had dreamed of becoming a hero.

It was natural, he supposed. Having grown up in a society which – unlike the majority of the world, as he had learned years down the road – followed the Japanese in establishing the pro-hero system, Ivan did what many did: idealized their protectors to a point of infatuation. His parents even had their own agency with quite the prestige and fan following although, it really rocketed up the popularity scale when Dejan had joined them.

Dejan who had inherited their mother’s telekinesis quirk in a stronger form and had a genius control over it. Who had been somewhat of a favorite among the people even before graduating with his hero license. Who was _perfect_.

Everyone had thought that Ivan would end up with their father’s ice quirk. He had been so excited about that, giddy and impatient to turn four.

When he did, though, there had never been a quirk manifestation.

Sometimes, Ivan wryly thought that the reason why he could brush off the bitterest of failures with such ease was because nothing could compare to the suffocating despair he had felt at four, when told that he was quirkless. His world had turned upside down from one moment to another – suddenly, he had been floating in the air, unable to reach for the ground his family, his idols, his dreams were standing on.

He had eventually stopped trying.

But Ivan still kept all those notebooks he had collected until his late teens. They used to be an outlet, and he had filled them up with notes on quirks and their strengths and weaknesses, and information on heroes and non-heroes with quirks he had found out about. Eventually, as the resentment over his situation festered more and more each year, he stopped opening them. At one point, he had wanted nothing more than to just  _leave_ , leave this society brimming with the buzz of quirks, and his family in which he stood out like a sore thumb, inadequate and useless.

In hindisght, he had to admit that it had been a very entitled attitude. Or, at the very least, he hadn’t looked far enough into what it really meant to have been born with a quirk to determine whether he was cursed or blessed.

Sure, Switzerland was a safe bubble for its gifted people and a fertile soil for pro-heroes to flourish on. Unfortunately, that was an exception. He had realized this after playing in Spain and for Croatia for so long- people didn’t look favorably upon quirks. Was it fear of the unknown? Jealousy? He didn’t know but their disdain was beyond toxic. Ivan remembered how, at the beginning, he had struggled to fit into Sevilla just because of his Swiss nationality, how his teammates would treat him like a contagious disease they had to stay away from or the fans and their ignorant comments. And he was _quirkless_! For someone less fortunate... If anyone ever found out you had a quirk, it basically meant social death for you; a slow, excruciating death filled with humiliation. The more famous you were, the worse the fall. Sadly, this was a relatively kind consequence compared to many others. He had had the displeasure of hearing some very disturbing horror stories from some countries which he rather wouldn’t want to dwell on otherwise, sleeping at night would become an impossible feat.

Yet, Ivan was truly confronted with the reality of how bad such a situation could get when the full backlash of Phil’s leaked information hit the club. The boycotted El Clasico had been the cherry on top of a series of harassments and persistent media sieges of their practice grounds. He had never felt as unsafe within the club’s premises as he did ever since the public got a whiff of Coutinho having a quirk, especially on that day when the coach and president tried to do some damage control – what exactly they wanted to achieve… Ivan doubted even they knew. Heck, denying that Phil had a quirk would be stupid, so there really was nothing they could do to appease the public. Even Leo’s face as support at the press conference wouldn’t help.

There had been so many people outside, Ivan remembered with a shudder. Lying in wait for them like hunting dogs, hurling abuses, blockading the entrances and barely being kept in check by the enforced security guards. Someone had even flung a stone as large as a tennis ball at Phil’s head; thank God for Ivan’s quick reflexes. The team had been put into an old, make-shift changing room at the other side of the main building, far away from the chaos that was raging everywhere else. They were out of sight but knowing what was happening outside was enough to put everyone on edge.

Why had they been asked to come? Those wolves would tear them apart if they dared set a foot anywhere in their vicinity. Or the training ground.

“I am surprised they didn’t light torches,” Ivan found himself saying drily.

Luis, who was lying spread out on the bench next to him, snorted. “And the pitchforks. Don’t forget them damn pitchforks.”

“Very funny,” Sergi, directly opposite of Ivan, muttered without once stopping the jittery up and down movements of his right knee. He was furiously typing on his phone, a deep crease digging between his eyebrows. Marc, Ousmane and Arturo were scattered around him, the latter sleeping at his feet while the other two were sitting on the floor on each side with their heads on the bench, looking dead to the world. It was a rather ridiculous sight. “But I assure you, Ivan, you’ll be less amused by this _now_.”

 _I am not amused to begin with_ , Ivan thought sourly. Trying to lighten up the mood was his default mode, excuse him. And honestly, everyone was so silent it felt more like a funeral hall than their changing rooms. He was sick of all the tension and the suffocating fear sizzling in the air, refusing to dissipate. They were all high strung on nerves and it drove him crazy – how long until someone really snapped? “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sergi looked like he was about to hand him his phone when Arthur, who had been sitting next to a very quiet Phil at the lockers, jumped to his feet with a curse on his lips. “ _Holy shit_!” His eyes snapped toward Ivan, huge and questioning and almost accusing. “Ivan, did you _know_?!”

Ivan frowned, completely caught off-guard by this liveliness. “Know what?”

Arthur made a vague, impatient hand gesture which had his phone almost flying out of his grasp. At least, his antics had replaced the unnerving apathetic look on Phil’s face with a curious glimmer. “About your Modrić!”

 _Huh?_ Ivan blinked stupefied. Luka? Suddenly, it was like someone had breathed life into this stifling room: Clothes rustled and benches screeched as the guys moved around to reach for their phones and look over each other's shoulders, and a hum a low murmurs erupted, impossibly loud after all the deafening silence. Curiosity dripped from where fear had accumulated for days. This abrupt awakening didn't serve Ivan with relief; it had his pulse jump with dread. Just when he was about to ask, a screen was pushed into his face. It displayed an article, the headline so large and bold that it had Ivan's focus zero in on it:

‘ ** _Real Madrid’s_ _Luka Modrić admits to having a quirk_** ’

The blood in Ivan’s veins turned into ice. _What the hell_? The words blurred in front of his eyes, not making any sense, until all he could see was _Luka_ and _quirk_ , and his stomach churned sickeningly. This happened not even an hour ago. Had Luka lost it? Why would he do something so incredibly stupid?! This was social suicide! He was putting his whole career on the line, dammit! How could he- that stupid- Why hadn’t anyone stopped him? Had anyone even known about this?

 _I didn’t know_.

“I… I have to-” He pushed past Sergi, almost knocking him down in his haste, ignored the curious looks of the rest of his teammates burning into his back, and rushed out of the door, hands already fumbling for his own phone.

Luka picked up on the third ring.

Ivan didn’t wait for him to greet him.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

There was silence on the other hand, a silence that stretched long enough for Ivan to regret having sounded so harsh. When Luka did speak, relief washed some of the regret away. “You’d have to be more precise, Raketa. What did I do?”

“What did…?” He came to a halt in the middle of the darkened hall and pressed his shoulders against the wall in his back. It didn’t stop the trembling of his limbs. “It’s all over the news! What were you thinking, going public like that?!”

“I am not sure, to be honest,” Luka admitted, voice hushed. He sounded less self-assured than he did mere seconds ago, his admission shaky and rueful. “It was just- I guess Coutinho’s situation got to me.”

“What do you mean?” Ivan ran his free thumb over his left eyebrow, trying to coax it out of the persistent frown. It hurt but it was a distracting hurt. “You felt, what? _Compassionate_ because they were targeting him like this?” And, alright, it had been an ugly mess, bad enough for them to refuse to let Phil stay at his own home – but shouldn’t that have made others, especially famous people with a quirk, try harder to hide it?

Luka made a weird sound, something between a derisive snort and a bitter chuckle, something that left a vile taste on Ivan’s tongue. “I’ve told you so many times that I’m not as nice a person as you think. I have done things in my life I am not proud of. _Horrible_ things,” he added the last bit so quietly that Ivan almost missed it, this confession which Luka seemed torn about whether to make or not. Ivan loathed himself for not finding the words to disagree but anything he would have to say would seem fake. After all, what did he know, really? “It’s just… his information was leaked, right? Which is awful. And I just thought that I’d rather admit it myself than have someone else do it for me. Do it under my own conditions and all, you know?”

Ivan slid down the wall, unable to keep standing upright any longer. He felt light-headed, and the churning of his stomach and his still blurred vision were making him sick. This was a lot. He couldn’t wrap his mind around everything- the fact that Luka was sincerely opening up so much right now, to him… They were close, of course. Always had been. But there were so many things both of them had been guarded about, chunks of their lives closed off to the other – they had known it without ever verbalizing it. Now, Luka was throwing those chunks at him, and Ivan was _scared_ of not being able to catch them.

“There were people who knew?”

Another long silence. Ivan grit his teeth in frustration. That was why he hated talking on the phone – he couldn’t see Luka’s face, read his expressions or understand what his eyes might want to convey.

“Yeah. Back in Dinamo. They… well.”

A sense of foreboding picked at Ivan’s mind, dragging it toward the tensions that had been rampant in Croatia for a while, Dinamo amidst everything. He pushed the feeling aside and sighed, tired from endless days of stress and already exhausted by the expectation of what was awaiting them from now on. What was done was done. They needed to focus on what was going to happen from now on. “They’ll question the validity of each of your victories, you know that, right?”

Luka hummed in agreement. “It would be fair. Sometimes, even I wonder which of my successes was earned and which wasn’t.”

Ivan grimaced, not liking where this was going. “What? You earned all of them!”

This time, Luka did chuckle, low and bitter and self-deprecating. It made Ivan's skin crawl. “I’d love to believe that, too. But my _quirk_ -” His voice hitched around that word as if it was too unfamiliar on his tongue. “I’m always wondering what’s real and what isn’t.”

Luka had always been somewhat self-conscious. Accepting compliments, accepting his individual achievements, believing that he could do great things- it never came easily to him. Ivan had thought that that was simply his personality: humbleness scattered with remnants of a war-torn childhood. But now, there seemed to be so much more to it.

Trying to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat, he forced the question burning strongest on his mind out of his mouth, “What’s your quirk?”

Luka didn't even hesitate, as if he had been waiting for him to ask. “Mind control. Sort of?” Oh. _Oh_. “It’s difficult to explain. When I was a kid, it just kind of happened? One look into my eyes and- _bam_. It was hard switch off.”

Yeah, Ivan could definitely see why this might warrant suspicion. Most quirks were easily detectable when in use since they tended to be physical, like an extension of one's body. Proving whether someone had used them while playing was easy – it wouldn’t be an issue for Phil, from what he had gathered. But Luka? Damn, what a mess.

“There are the suppressors, of course,” Luka continued, unperturbed by Ivan’s lack of a reaction. Maybe it was better to be doing this over the phone otherwise, Luka would have definitely noticed him turning as white as a sheet. His brother had taken suppressors once. Ivan didn't remember the details, but he vividly remembered how Dejan had been unable to leave the bed for a whole week, their home had stunk of sick and blood. He forced himself to bury that memory away and focus because Luka was still talking, and he needed to _listen_ \- “...my headband when I play and an anklet, too, sometimes. But they aren’t– a preventive to stop our quirks from activation isn’t a guarantee that it works all the time. Especially when we choose the lighter ones. I don’t use my quirk intentionally-”

“Then, what’s the problem?” he cut off the rambling with ease but cringed at how hoarse he sounded. He needed to get a grip on himself. “You’ve done what you could while risking your health. And I mean, you would know if you used it even accidentally, no?”

Luka let out a shaky breath. “I guess. It’s just hard to convince myself.”

“You’re an idiot,” Ivan said affectionately. This was good, safe ground, familiar. “Don’t try, it’s futile. I’ll do the convincing.”

“Really now?”

He could hear a smile in Luka’s words and it had him smile slightly in return. “I-”

“ ** _Ivan!_** ”

Startled, he almost dropped his phone. His gaze snapped toward Arthur who was poking his head out of the changing room, features alight with childish excitement.

“Do you have a quirk too?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Your whole national team has! Do you?”

What? Iven opened his mouth but before he could say anything, the kid was dragged back inside, and that definitely sounded like Gerard berating him for yelling. Frankly speaking, Ivan felt as if he were at the end of some cosmic joke.

“It’s not the whole team,” Luka said, successfully snapping him out of his stupor. "He's exaggerating."

“What?” God, he sounded like a broken recorder.

“Well, I see Mario here. He still counts. And, hm, Dejan. Perry. Ante, that’s surprising. And-”

“Don’t tell me they announced it publicly,” Ivan begged. Desperation was slowly creeping up his chest, making it hard to breath.

Luka paused, probably trying to weigh his options before settling on, “I wouldn’t want to lie to you, though!”

 _Shit_. “Why are you so calm about this?!”

“Someone has to be.” Although, he definitely sounded strained.

Ivan covered half of his face with his palm and groaned. “I can’t believe this. Honestly, they’d die for you, just try asking. Very dedicated.”

“That’s not- I don’t think- don’t say stuff like that!”

He wasn’t frustrated enough yet not to be amused by how easy it was to fluster Luka. _Seriously_. “It’s true.”

“ _Whatever_. You didn’t answer him – do you have one?”

Any ounce of amusement washed away.

It had been one thing, back in Switzerland: the buzz around quirks. Reason enough for him to decide to leave, decide to play for the national team he had leaned toward from the beginning, anyway. It had been years since anyone had asked him something like this – Ivan had almost forgotten what it felt like. This hollowness when reminded that no, he didn’t. How could hollowness ache, though?

“Ivan?”

He cleared his throat and prayed that his voice would not betray him. “Err, no. Guess I’ll be the odd one from now on, huh?” _Not that I’m not used to it_.

Luka didn’t reply immediately, and Ivan knew that he had picked up on something. Always so perceptive about everything except himself… “Again, it’s not the whole team. And even if it were, you wouldn’t be odd. Just – you. Exceptional you.”

Ivan allowed the fluttering of his heart to fill him with warmth. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Sure does,” Luka disagreed. Much softer, he added, “Thanks. I was worried you might… I mean, it’s not something people take well. Usually.”

“My family runs their own hero agency,” Ivan replied without hesitation.

It wasn’t a secret, per se, but the Swiss government was careful about any media coverage concerning hero activity within its borders given the general populace’s take on it. And probably also because they wanted to have some aces up their sleeves for dire times, he supposed. He tried not to think much about the latter. Besides, it wasn’t like his family operated with their real names and faces on display that many people could make the connection.

Though, it felt relieving to confess this part of his life to the person who knew him in a way no one else did.

“I see,” Luka said. “That explains a lot.”

He hummed non-committedly. It was surprisingly easy, talking like this despite the chaos raging around them. The reminder had him grimace. “I'm still annoyed at the guys, though. Being supportive is one thing, being reckless another.”

“ _I_ was reckless first,” Luka pointed out unhelpfully.

“At least, we know whom they take after,” he couldn’t help but tease. A little more seriously he asked, “And why can’t the Brazilians support Phil, too? I’d feel so much better with another team being put through the wringer!” Which really sounded horrible. For all he knew, they might not even have another quirk-user in their team. How come they had so many in theirs?

“Hey, Marcelo would if he could!” Ivan rolled his eyes at the immediate, defensive retort. “But anyway, I have to-” A loud crash resonated from Luka’s end, followed by the man cursing under his breath. “ _Great_. I think Marcelo's broken. The club will have my head for- And one of the guys is trying to break down my door?” If Ivan strained his ears, he indeed could hear a series of poundings in the background as if someone was hitting their fists against wood in some distance.

Strange. "Why are they breaking into your home?"

"My security system isn't letting anyone in. And maybe those sentimental messages I send yes..." Luka trailed off as if hit by a sudden realization. He groaned. "Talk to you later, yeah? Let me save my house and their useless dignity. _Gareth Frank Bale, what the- put that down!_ ”

“Good luck,” Ivan snorted although Luka wasn't listening.

Not even a whole minute after the call ended, the door of their changing room opened again – were those idiots eavesdropping? – and Phil walked out. His movements were hesitant and uncertain, and Ivan wished he could _do_ something to help. Coming to a halt in front of him, Phil fiddled with his fingers, avoiding eye-contact.

“He didn’t do that because of me, did he?”

Ah. Ivan shrugged. “I don’t think so. He’s an idiot – all of them are idiots. That’s not your fault.” It didn’t seem to reassure the younger man and Ivan sighed, deciding to try something else. “What’s your quirk?”

Phil’s eyes shot up at that, meeting Ivan’s, wide and surprised. “What?”

“Your quirk,” Ivan repeated gently. “Leo said they wouldn’t be able to frame you for fraud in games. But what is it? I am curious.”

Phil hesitated for a heartbeat before he crouched down and reached for Ivan with a reddish glowing hand. When he touched him, just a light tap against his chest, Ivan felt a jolt shoot up his veins and within the blink of an eye, he found himself floating inches above the floor. He forced down his first instinct to flail, which seemed to have Phil relax even more, and let out an amused breath. “Wow.”

Phil’s lips quirked into a shy smile. There was still a chilling sadness etched into his features that was so wrong. In the back of his mind, Ivan could still hear Luka’s words, “ _I’m always wondering what’s real and what isn’t._ ”

But maybe this could be fine. Eventually.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More build-up. The chapter got longer than I had planned but I didn't want to split it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> I am glad that some of you are interested in the plot <3

‘ _How do you rein in an out-of-control quirk?_ ’

“…with quirks naturally tend to lean toward physical activities. They have the urge _to do_. So, it’s not surprising to find many in sports- you’re not even listening to me!”

Mario wasn’t the most patient person, especially not if he had to concentrate on multiple things at once. Yet, he had been enduring this blatant breach of his privacy for quite some time now, and he didn’t even know why.

Lifting his gaze from his phone, he placed his still running Nintendo on his right thigh, and regarded Paulo, who had come to a halt in front of him, with an unimpressed stare, the kind which he knew unnerved other people. The familiarly nostalgic music of his Mario Card game in the background was a nice extra effect. When the kid started to fidget slightly, he let his stare glide toward Federico who was lounging on his _good_ couch with _his_ dog on his chest and not paying any attention to them. Leni tended to be too trusting of anyone who would offer attention. Unfortunately.

His focus returned to his WhatsApp chat, apprehension bubbling in his chest. ‘ _What did you do?_ ’ Once the text was sent, he glared back at his unwanted guests. “Why,” he asked slowly, “are you two even here?”

Paulo opened his mouth, closed it without saying anything and opened it again while craning his neck to glance at Federico. “He wasn’t listening to me, was he?”

Federico didn’t bother looking up. “ _I_ wasn’t listening to you, either.”

“ _Rude_!”

“You talking gibberish is rude.”

“It wasn’t gibberish! It was valuable information!”

“If you say so.”

 _Brats_ , Mario thought, irritated. They were persistent, he would give them that much. Or just too obtuse to realize that their presence wasn’t welcomed. It almost reminded him of how obnoxious Domo used to be when he wanted something from him or how Šime and Dejan would bicker just like that but with more banter thrown in between and Per- _Fuck_. He shook his head, trying to get rid of that train of thought before the apprehension in his chest turned to pain.

“I’m giving you a minute,” he told them while already focusing back on his chat. He was handling three different children at once – maybe he had underestimated his own patience. “If you don’t explain yourselves, I’ll throw you out.”

‘ _Nothing!_ ’ After a second, another message. ‘ _I can’t turn it off!_ ’

What the fuck? Mario’s hackles raised. Most likely, the idiot had been either on suppressants or used his suppressing devices for too long, causing his quirk to go off-kilter. Mario had heard about that happening although, never experienced it himself. Still, this was irresponsible. ‘ _You’re a bloody idiot, Rebić._ ’

“Basically,” Federico started to say haltingly. In his periphery, Mario saw that he finally sat up, letting Leni slid into his lap. “Curiosity.” He paused, frowned thoughtfully and waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss what he just said. “I mean, of course, we also support you. Obviously. But Paulo here was curious-”

“Oh, and you were not, huh?”

“Not in the same way you are.”

“What’s that supposed to-?”

“I’m not showing you my quirk,” Mario muttered, loud enough to be heard. Both their heads snapped so quickly into his direction that he briefly wondered if it was possible to snap your own neck. He leaned back against the leg of his not-so-good couch, stretched his legs more and crossed his right ankle over his left one. “Forget it.”

Paulo looked like a kicked puppy – he was freakishly talented in pulling that off. Yet, Mario didn’t yield.

It wasn’t that he was scared to show them or worried that a paparazzi, if they were able to trespass his property, might click him. He hadn’t upgraded his security system or covered every window in his house to gain a false sense of privacy precisely because he didn’t care about that. Why should he? When he had made his admission post earlier, he had done it with full awareness of its consequences.

But he refused to feed into novel curiosity over something he wasn’t proud of. And maybe a tiny part of him worried about his own quirk playing crazy. His skin already felt uncomfortably tight, especially on his palms.

His phone buzzed, demanding attention. ‘ _I have a meeting in an hour_ ,’ Ante had sent. He was writing more, and apparently deleting whatever he wrote several times before another message came through, indicating that the brat was desperate. Probably even somewhat terrified, and that had Mario on edge. ‘ _And I am i n v i s i b l e._ ’ As if to emphasize his point, the next message was a photo – of a very cozy looking grey sweater with the image of a bichon frise puppy in the middle. It seemed like the sweater was floating on a chair.

Well. This would have been hilarious if he hadn’t known that Ante was probably going out of his mind.

Apparently realizing that Mario wasn’t going to budge, Paulo sat down cross-legged in front of him. There was still this stubborn edge to his expression, Mario noted when he glared at him. His palms were _itching,_ and it was only worsening with each second. Was it the stress? “Why not?”

‘ _Wait. And don’t go out_ ,’ he advised Ante before putting down his phone. Whether that was sound advice or not, Mario had no idea – he was no expert when it came to quirks. Why was Ante even asking _him_ out of all people? But he needed to focus on one thing at a time although, he couldn’t completely shake off the worry clinging to him.

“Why do you want to see it?” he addressed Paulo. _Why are you excited over something other people shy away from?_

The boy shrugged. “Because I think quirks are cool.”

 _Ante would disagree, I bet_. “Then you’re in a fucking minority, kid.”

“Which is ridiculous, right?” Paulo blinked, and the excitement in his eyes had dimmed considerably. He wasn’t looking at Mario anymore but right through him. “People grow up with all these superhero comics and idolizing them. But when they are confronted with the same super powers they loved as kids in real life? Hypocrites.”

Mario averted his gaze, fixating it somewhere above the sliding glass door on the other end of his living room. It was going to rain today. “Liking fiction is fun. But that same fiction turned into reality? It’s different. It’s scary.”

His parents had been scared. Whenever he thought about them, that was the first thing to strike his mind: their fear. Till date, he wasn’t sure what they had been so scared of – him? His quirk? Or had it been fear for his life? Probably a complicated mix of all of these things, and that made him avoid mulling over it. He didn’t like complications – the more straight-forward something was the better.

And the fact that their fear could have almost costed him his dream- _You’re too temperamental, Mario. Your anger triggers your quirk! Why can’t you see that football is a bad idea_? -didn’t help matters much. Mario loved his parents and he was sure they loved him, too. But he relished living without their suffocating, caging fear binding him down.

Paulo was frowning so hard that Mario was sure it would leave wrinkles. “Are you scared? Is that why you won’t show us?”

Mario snorted. “Do I look scared to you? I just don’t think it’s cool. I mean, what is so cool about a power you never chose and didn’t work for?”

All it was good for was giving you an unfair advantage over most of humanity. It was like going to a fist fight armed – there was no balance. Even if you used it against people like yourself, they might have an unpractical quirk or one naturally much weaker than yours, something they couldn’t help nor change. Why show off something like this? When was the right moment to use it? What for?

“Why did you go public, then?” Federico, who had been strangely silent throughout Paulo’s inquiry had propped his elbow in his left knee, rested his chin in his palm and observed Mario curiously. It was different from Paulo’s curiosity, though. Less demanding. “If you hate it that much, then why?”

“I don’t _hate_ it,” Mario grunted. “And… just _because_.”

It had been impulsive – the same urge that forced you to join your friend in an unprovoked fight instead of berating them for being foolish enough to get caught up in such a mess. Mario wouldn’t have been able to ignore it even if he had wanted to. It was second nature for him by now to throw himself in front of Luka when the guy, rarely as that was, decided to be reckless. Usually, it was limited to the pitch and football related things, but camaraderie nursed over more than a decade of playing together had long ago caused the lines between professional and private to blur into unrecognizable territory. In the end, it was all the same: Luka was Luka no matter where they both stood today, and Mario wouldn’t let him take on a whole world without backup.

That didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to chew him out for being stupid. Although, he suspected that Raketa might have been quicker than him.

Federico rolled his eyes at him. “You can say that you did it for Modrić, you know? It’s not rocket science to figure that out.”

 _Fucking brat_. “Then why’d you ask?”

“Do you think _he_ would be willing to show me? What’s his quirk anyway?”

Despite his claims that he wouldn’t show them, Mario could feel his whole body ache with the need to activate his quirk. His palms were burning and Paulo Dybala being a menace wasn’t any help. _Shit_. “How would I know?” he growled, patience slowly trickling to an end. He hadn’t considered the possibility of other quirk-users in any of his teams until this morning and hadn’t spoken to any of the others except Ante yet.

“But-” Paulo was cut off by his phone’s ringing. He grimaced when he saw whoever it was and for a second it seemed like he wouldn’t pick up at all. In the end, he just groaned before hurrying out of the room with an apologetic wave in his direction.

The silence that fell over the room once he was out was almost relieving, but Mario couldn’t relax, not with the way Federico kept staring. Clearly, he wanted to say something but was struggling with it. Eventually, he said quietly, bordering on shy, “Can you use it at all? Your quirk, I mean.”

Mario furrowed his brows in confusion. “Of course, I can.”

“I just…” Fede clicked his tongue as if frustrated. He was avoiding eye-contact by now and chewing on his lower lip in a rather painful looking manner. Leni in his lap was getting restless, too. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get rid of it? It would be safer.”

Mario froze. The strange undertone tinging Federico’s words didn’t escape his notice. “That’s impossible.” At least, he had never heard of anyone being able to get rid of theirs. “And even if, you would be mutilating yourself.” There was a hitch in Federico’s shoulder, subtle but Mario had been looking, and it had his senses on high alert.

His personal opinion about his quirk aside, Mario always felt queasy and restless when he didn’t let it out once in a while. He loathed the suppressors because they had his skin crawl unpleasantly and elicited a persistent sense of _wrongness_ within him. The first time was always the worst, something he would rather forget. You got used to it eventually but that didn’t make it better; it was like trying to find your footing while being unable to touch the ground – you learned to walk while floating but never got completely rid of the nagging wrongness.

That was what happened for temporarily cutting off your quirk. He didn’t want to think about what it would be like to lose it permanently.

But Federico wasn’t asking out of mere curiosity, was he?

“I don’t like bragging about it,” he continued carefully. “I don’t hate it, but I am not proud of it, either. It’s just a part of me whether anyone likes it or not, and I wouldn’t get rid of it.”

Federico pursed his lips doubtfully. “Even if people hate you for it? What if the club decides to drop you?”

Mario’s pulse jumped at that. He didn’t care about the former, anyone who hated him wasn’t worth consideration. But the latter? It had been on his mind, of course. And it was a very real possibility – clubs had an image to maintain, after all, and not everyone could be as crazy as Barcelona. Yet, if he had stopped to consider being thrown out of his club, he might have hesitated to support Luka, and that was something Mario hadn’t been willing to allow himself.

“I’ll think about it when it happens.” With a sharper edge to it he added, “Do you want to tell me something?”

Fede shifted on the couch which prompted Leni to press her head against his chest as if trying to be comforting. “It’s nothing.”

Mario didn’t buy that, but he wasn’t one to prod.

When Paulo re-entered the room shortly after, he was smiling sheepishly. “That was the coach. He says we should get our asses over there. _All_ of us.”

Mario’s throat tightened with nerves, making it hard to breath. Well, that would have happened sooner or later, yet he didn’t feel quite ready. He bet the management was furious. How would they get out unnoticed, anyway?

As if reading his mind, Paulo, grinning smugly, declared. “Don’t worry, we’ve brought bodyguards with us!”

“And their uniforms,” Federico added. “It was Leo’s suggestion although, I don’t think he was serious about it.”

“Very prepared, I see,” he said drily.

Fede shrugged nonchalantly before putting Leni down and standing up to stretch his muscles. Leni was content to nestle up against his legs. “We thought you wouldn’t want to miss practice.”

“And no one’s going to notice us!”

Somehow, Mario doubted that. But he didn’t object because, really, nothing could be as bad as what had already happened. Dressing up like a clown was the least of his worries. The only thing that made him nervous was the possibility that the crowd outside might be very hostile and these two could get caught up in the mess.

Grabbing his phone, he scanned it for new messages and, upon finding none from Ante, pulled up Luka’s name. First, he forwarded him Ante’s picture. ‘ _Ante’s invisible. Can’t turn it off. Do something. And you’re not off the hook!_ ’

That done, he switched off his game and stood up only to grimace when every movement send a jolt through his body. His palms were unbearable, their itching seemed to have turned into a raging fire intent on burning away every inch of his skin, and he didn’t understand _why_. Maybe it wasn’t a suppressants’ thing, maybe their quirks just had decided to play crazy simultaneously.

The one thing he did know was that the longer he ignored it, the madder it would drive him. And what if he lost control in public? Being invisible wasn’t that bad compared to the destruction Mario could cause. His uninvited guests were already leaving the room, and Mario really didn’t have much of a choice. “I’ll be there in a minute. You know where the bathroom is,” he told them and waited until they were out. Once he couldn’t hear their footsteps in the corridor anymore, he turned toward the sliding door behind the couch Federico had occupied earlier and stepped out.

A cursory glance around his porch confirmed that he was alone. Relieved, Mario crouched down, splayed out his hands in front of himself and concentrated.

It started off as slowly as always: his palms turned from a light reddish-yellow hue to a darker shade, emanating small clouds of smoke, and _pop_. The first explosion was small and quiet, just a huge spark emerging from the tip of his forefinger that had a strange tingling sensation surge through his veins. It turned almost comforting with each new spark that exploded on the surface on his hands, larger and louder than the one before; like moving a limb that had gone numb due to a lack of activity.

The explosions looked harmless like this. Simply a firework dancing all over his hands.

Mario felt the tension fall off him. Up until he heard Paulo’s indignant, “ ** _Mario!_** ” from not nearly far enough away.

 

* * *

 

 

There were thin, white lines lurking within all of that bright yellow that was filling his eyes. They were hard to see unless he really concentrated on making them out, especially because they moved around relentlessly. _Strings_ , Luka had thought the first time he had noticed them. How fitting. Maybe his subconscious had had already drawn the connection before he had even truly understood what any of this meant.

Luka blinked, and the yellow was swallowed up by familiar brown.

Upon finally seeing his _actual_ eyes stare back at him through the thick strip of glass that divided his front door in half, Luka could breathe freely again. They were throbbing in protest but even the pain was better than having to look at that bloody quirk. He turned half-way around and let himself fall into the corner where door ended and one of walls of corridor started, exhausted.

He wished this day would just end already.

Or that he could muster up indefinite resources of that forced nonchalance he had presented to Ivan. Which had only worked because they talked over the phone, and even that had been draining.

“Lukita?” Sergio stuck his head out of one of the three rooms that were located downstairs. Right next to the stairs. _Kitchen_. “How long is Gaz going to stay like _that_?”

Luka hunched his shoulders and pressed himself deeper into the corner, wishing it would swallow him up. “I don’t know?”

He hadn’t used his quirk on anyone for a long time now, preferring to activate it when he was certain that he wouldn’t be disturbed by neither family nor friends. Although, he had wondered whether someone from the team might come over today, he hadn’t really expected it. Not like this and not this quickly, at least. It had been carelessness on his part.

But he honestly hadn’t meant to target Gareth like that! It just _happened_. Stress and a lack of sleep with no suppressor on were a bad combination for him.

Marcelo had somehow managed to fall in through an open window on the first floor and right after, toppled down the stairs. It had looked worse than it was, but Luka had freaked out. And Sergio and Gareth had honestly tried to break down his door. _Who_ did that? He had been relatively calm about the whole situation up until these clowns decided to shatter his façade.

Sergio was squinting at him critically. “And we can’t, like, snap him out of it?”

“ ** _No!_** ” Luka’s sudden outburst startled himself as much as it did Sergio. He pressed the balls of his hands against his aching eyes and groaned. “You can’t do that,” he said more quietly. “It might be harmful.”

“Harmful how?” A note of uncertainty colored Sergio’s voice, something that had Luka tense up. There was no way around this.

Pushing himself off his corner, Luka walked over and past Sergio into the kitchen. Marcelo was sitting at the round table in the middle, an ice pack resting on his head. On the chair next to him was, just as Luka had instructed, Gareth, sitting straight as a ramrod, hands neatly folded on the table and staring vacantly into nothing. He wasn’t even reacting to Marcelo waving his hand in front of his face. Though, he perked up the moment Luka set foot into the room, fixating an empty stare at him. If he looked long enough, he would be able to make out the same strings he had seen in his own eyes. _Creepy_.

Luka barely suppressed a shudder.

Technically seen, they could snap Gareth out of this spell by inflicting pain on him which was reprehensible enough on its own. But there was also a very high risk of- “Brain damage. My-” He motioned toward his face, his tongue still finding it hard to wrap around the word _quirk_. “It taps into the brain. So, it’s not… we should let it run its course.”

Sergio’s gaze was burning into his back; he could feel the apprehension dripping in waves from the Spaniard. “Have you tried it out before?”

Unintentionally, he stiffened. “I wouldn’t say ‘ _tried_ ’.” And it hadn’t been him who had snapped the guy out of the trance. But it sure as hell wasn’t an experience Luka was dying to repeat- the mere thought had bile rise in his throat.

“Well, he’s like a well-trained puppy,” Marcelo spoke up for the first time since he had arrived. He had given up trying to gain Gareth’s attention and was instead taking in Luka from head to toe. As if _he_ had been the one to fall down the stairs. “This could be such a useful skill – one sure way to finally start winning!”

“That’s not funny.” Maybe he had sounded harsher then intended because Marcelo smiled apologetically at him. Wanting to change the topic, he asked, “How badly did you aggravate your calf?”

That added a guilty touch to his friend’s smile. “Na, s’fine.”

“Liar.” He had seen him hobble more than walk off earlier, after all. “You guys could’ve just called me. All of this was unnecessary.”

“Would you have picked it up?”

 _Maybe_. Probably not. It had been surprising enough for himself that he had picked up Ivan’s call. But Ivan couldn’t march over to his house whenever he liked, and he was just… Ivan. After pulling off the stunt he had, Luka definitely hadn’t been eager to talk to anyone from Real Madrid.

“Luka.” That was Sergio’s _captain_ voice. Not something that impressed Luka considering that he had been the one to endure Sergio’s sessions of perfecting this specific tone, yet he did turn around. Sergio was leaning sideway against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and one eyebrow lifted. “Personally, I was less worried about the whole quirk thingy than that message of yours. Do you have any idea how that sounded? You sent this to us and then, skip practice and go public with your quirk.”

Guiltily, he winced. Well, in that specific moment, it had seemed like a great idea to let his teammates know how much he appreciated their love and support and how much he had enjoyed his time in Madrid. Luka couldn’t even explain it – all he had wanted was to let them _know_ before dragging them all down with him. Or being kicked out of the club.

In hindsight, he could see how that might have freaked them out once they saw his admission all over the news. Although, it was a little disappointing that they would think he could harm himself.

“I wouldn’t have done anything.”

Sergio’s expression softened. “We were just worried.”

“I’m-” He sighed, glanced over Gareth’s still form, avoided looking at Marcelo and closed his lids. Somehow, that made the ache even worse. “I’m sorry for dragging you guys into this mess.” He really was. And maybe he should have given them a head’s up but who would have supported him? Definitely not the club, especially not after how Barca was being dragged through the mud. His friends, the ones not minding him having a quirk, would have tried to persuade him not to take this step. “But I _had to_ do this.”

Not _completely_ because of some sense of camaraderie or out of compassion. Luka didn’t even know Philippe Coutinho that well, though it was disgusting how his case was being blown out of proportions. Disgusting and terrifying. That could have been _him_. He wouldn’t get away scot-free just because he came out with it on his, that wasn’t how their world worked. But Luka wouldn’t be caught off-guard like Coutinho had been. That certainty alone was enough to assure him.

Exposing himself had been his own choice, and he did it on his own terms – he was nervous, worried about the backlash, but at least he wasn’t _suffocating_ anymore.

Fingers buried into his hair, snapping him out of his musings. They glide down his neck and pulled him into Sergio’s side. “Well, what’s done is done. Just don’t scare us like that again, got it?”

Luka’s lips curled into a small smile. The team hadn’t reacted badly when Coutinho’s news broke out, most of them at least, hence why he had been hopeful that they would be fine with him, too. But it was still a relief to get confirmation.

“Why does he get a hug and I don’t?!”

“I thought your calf is fine.” Sergio rested his chin atop Luka’s head. “Come over and join.”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man, Ramos.”

“If it’s that bad,” Luka said as he turned around in Sergio’s embrace, “you should see a doctor.”

“I’d love to see that doc’s face when you tell him what happened,” Sergio snorted amusedly.

That had Marcelo pout harder. “At least, I’m not a complete brute like you two!”

“Gareth isn’t a brute,” Luka disagreed. Upon hearing his name, Gareth turned his head toward him and tilted it to the side as if waiting for him to address him. The smile slipped off Luka’s lips, replaced by a guilty grimace.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

“So.” Marcelo took down the ice pack and placed it on Gareth’s shoulder where it touched the other’s throat. “How does this work?”

“Mainly by looking into my eyes when…”

“They’re ‘switched on’,” Sergio completed for him. “But there are other ways?”

“Nothing that effective.”

Honestly, Luka didn’t want to talk about this. His quirk was creepy and repulsive; having to explain how it worked made him loathe it that much more. The last thing he wanted was to expand on its workings. How was he supposed to say it, anyway? That sometimes, it could be his voice carrying traces of his quirk when or after he had it activated? It was subtler than the eyes- not an instant control of the victim’s mind but more like influencing them on a subconscious level.

 _Sometimes, I don’t even know what’s real and what isn’t_ , he had told Ivan. And it was true – he had found himself many a times questioning how sincere his relationships were and how much his influence might have shaped them. It wasn’t a simple case of doing it willingly or even noticing that he was doing it; he was human and lacked experience with his quirk, missteps were bound to happen.

If they hadn’t, Luka probably wouldn’t have made it into professional football.

But he would rather bite off his own tongue that say any of this out aloud.

The sudden buzz of his phone cut through the awkward silence that had fallen on them, thankfully freeing Luka from elaborating any further and stopping Sergio and Marcelo from questioning more. When he saw that Mario had sent him two messages, he frowned. The first one was a picture of a puppy-sweater on a chair. Was it floating? Definitely not as flat as clothes were supposed to be. Underneath it, Mario had written, ‘ _Ante’s invisible. Can’t turn it off. Do something. And you’re not off the hook!_ ’

What in the name of…? Luka squinted at the picture. Yeah, if the thought about it now, it sure looked like someone was wearing it – it was filled out. But what did Mario mean? He couldn’t turn it off? A surge of worry had his chest tighten uncomfortably. What was he supposed to do? Maybe call up Ante? Ivan might be able to help better, though. His parents were heroes – which sounded bizarre to Luka – he would know.

“Which one was Ante?” Sergio, who had been leaning over him to see, asked curiously. “And huh. Would he have to take off all his clothes to be completely invisible?”

Marcelo perked up, equally curious. And impatient. “Who’s invisible?”

Exasperated, Luka wound out of Sergio’s grip and glared at him for good measure. “Don’t be rude!”

Sergio just raised his hands defensively and shrugged. “But seriously, which one’s that?”

“You wouldn’t-”

An ear-shattering clash followed by a sickening _thud_ had Luka freeze. When he turned toward the window to his left, he saw that it was broken. There was a stone lying in the shard spread out on his kitchen floor. But what had panic flood his insides, was Gareth’s still form, tipped over the table like a ragged doll.

Behind him, he could hear Sergio run out of the room. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Marcelo limp toward Gareth. Yet, he couldn’t move an inch, desperately trying to quench the horror that was slowly engulfing him.

His quirk hadn’t run its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Juventus boys are really growing on me these days. It's all Mario's fault, lol. Anyway, until next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

 

The first time Šime had come into contact with a quirk he had been seven.

There had been this girl a little older than him, the neighbors’ kid his Mom would let stay over occasionally because the parents fought a lot and she would roam around outside all alone. His mother had always been very empathetic and soft-hearted, easy to sympathize with others. But the neighbors hadn’t appreciated their meddling. They would always march into their home at some point, cause a ruckus that would draw the attention of everyone living in their area and would drag the scared girl back home, screaming and crying. Šime recollected that his own parents used to argue about the situation incessantly with his Dad being annoyed at his Mom while the latter did what she thought to be right.

One day, everything just got out of control.

The girl – he couldn’t even remember her name – had been nervous from the first moment she had entered their house. Playing with her hadn’t been fun because she wouldn’t listen to him at all and would jump like a scared kitten at the smallest of noises. There had been warm milk and a small plate full of  _Domaćica_ , and she hadn't touched any of them but pushed her own toward him when his mother hadn't been looking. It had mollified him. When her Dad had barged in, face purple with anger, she had clung on to Šime’s left forearm as if her life depended on it, and he had just stood there, hiding a girl taller than him behind himself.

The details were very blurry to him today. But he _did_ remember the pain exploding in his arm, vividly so: as if the spot she had been touching was being crushed by a shower of burning stones. He remembered the screaming. His mother’s terrified eyes and father’s panicked shouting, and maybe there had been other people because his fuzzy mind would conjure an array of too many voices, none of them making sense. Worst of all though, had been the sick horror that made him momentarily forget his own pain when the neighbor grabbed his daughter and she _touched_ him – and the man, that grown, bulky man had just crumbled to dust, reeking of metal and rotten flesh, right in front of their eyes.

That had been the last Šime had ever seen of the neighbor’s kid.

He had sported an ugly scar on his forearm ever since. The skin there had started to peel off, the flesh was numb no matter how often he tried to elicit some feeling, and the _smell_. God, it always smelled of something rotten mixed with a metallic note. It was disgusting. Šime hadn’t been able to look at that ugly spot without feeling like throwing up. No one had. His mother would always make sure that he had it covered and sprayed with a rose parfum before leaving the house. Not that it did much because everyone in their community had heard about what had transpired that day, and if people weren’t busy gossiping about it, they would make sure to stay away from him. Even the children – as if he was _contagious_.

When Šime had decided to get tattoos, he had wanted to cover that spot. Initially, it was supposed to be only that one but… sometimes, he felt a burning itching in other areas of his skin before it numbed, cold and dead. Rationally seen, he knew that there was nothing there. But he couldn’t shake off the feeling of disgusting numbness and just wanted it all gone, as much as possible.

Hence, _quirks_ made Šime deeply uncomfortable.

He had never even imagined that this aversion of his might pose problems, some day. How could he have foreseen _this_ , though? What was the chance of your national team, the one you were close enough to to call family, harboring several quirk-users? Without anyone knowing?

“Are you trying to set your phone on fire?”

Šime flinched, so sudden and violent that he accidentally rammed his elbow into Brozo’s side. Although grimacing in pain, Brozo didn’t react much and waved an upcoming apology away. He simply slid closer again, the tiles squeaking under the heels of his boots, until their shoulders were touching and nudged him impatiently. Right. He had asked something. “No?”

Brozo squinted at the phone Šime was clutching in trembling hand, brows drawn into a troubled frown. “Those are quite a lot of messages from Dejan, though.”

 _Right_. Šime just hummed. There were indeed a lot of messages and phone calls – fifty plus and they kept coming despite Šime not even reading them. Dejan was probably furious by now, he wasn’t overly patient, but he was too stubborn to give up and wait for a reply like any other normal human being would. Shouldn’t he have been busy? God knows none of _them_ had had a peaceful moment ever since Perry had decided to jump the bandwagon of suicidal captain-supporters.

As if on cue, the door they had been sitting opposite of was thrown open, drawing both their attention, and out stepped a very grumpy Ivan Perišić. Behind him, Šime could see the head of their medical staff animatedly talking to their coach and the president of the club and a handful of other people he didn’t recognize before the door closed and the bustling of the office was cut off.

The silence that set over them was tense. Or maybe it was his imagination because he himself tensed up instinctively.

Eventually, it was Brozo, of course it was him, who broke the silence. “How did it go?”

Šime didn’t know about his own look earlier, but Perry was definitely trying to set Brozo on fire. Not that it fazed the other much. It never did. “Annoyingly. And _embarrassingly_.” He grumbled something more, maybe curses under his breath, and groaned while he tugged at his own, short hair as if trying to rip it out. There was a desperate touch to his movements. Without giving them a chance to reply, he strode past them down the relatively empty corridor. They hastily scrambled to their feet to follow and Šime fell into step to his left, careful not to touch, eying him warily. “I want to kick something so bad right now.”

“Well, you froze our practice schedule. And playing one probably too.” Brozo crossed his arms behind his head, his EpicBrozo shirt sliding up with the movement, and huffed. “I thought they just wanted to see your quirk?”

Ivan’s expression darkened considerably, and Šime could even see how he clenched his fists inside the pockets of his jeans. Somehow, he was sure that the anger was directed more at himself rather than the club, otherwise he wouldn’t be half as composed as he was. “Well, tough luck. They didn’t.”

Brozo bent forward and brought his face in front of Perry’s, trying to get a better look and getting swatted away like an annoying fly. “Why?”

A myriad of emotions rushed over Perry’s features at that. In the end, it was irritation that won out. “’cause that fucker’s cross with me.”

Confused, Šime tilted his head to the side. “Who?”

Perry sighed exasperatedly and glared at him as if he was being intentionally dumb. “My quirk.”

What the hell? His steps faltered at that. “It… has a will? How can they have a will?”

“Mine does.” Ivan pulled one hand out of his pocket and loosened the collar of his shirt by popping the first button open. It wasn’t even hot. “It’s a- how to put it? Bird? Shadow? Freak. Comes out whenever he wants and doesn’t when I want him to. Bastard can hold a grudge, alright.”

Honestly, Sime couldn’t imagine it. Comes out of where? Ivan’s body? Quirks manifested in the body, after all. But that really seemed like such a bizarre concept – and creepy, having something live inside of yourself. And what was a bird-shadow, exactly? He decided to focus on the easier part. “Grudge because of what?”

Ivan’s expression lost its tight edge, replaced by an exhaustion that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar but yet, always out-of-place on the usually fiery man. “I told him to shut up and fuck off. I was _fifteen_. Jesus.”

Brozo burst into peals of laughter, causing them to come to an abrupt halt. He was clutching Ivan’s shoulder with one hand and his left side with the other, laughter honestly amused and loud enough to draw wary glances of the few people lingering around toward them.

“I’m glad,” Perry growled, “that one of us can laugh.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He sounded anything but sorry. “It’s just, he seems to have a lot in common with you.”

“I don’t hold grudges!” Upon their pointed silence, he amended, “For _that_ long.”

Debatable. Either the offender apologized, or Ivan Perišić could hold quite the grudge – Šime and Brozo both had had the pleasure to learn this life lesson from the front row of class. Maybe Perry hadn’t apologized to his own quirk, prideful fool that he was.

“Well, I’d sure love to meet the guy.”

 _I am not too sure about that_. Šime grimaced as soon as that thought flitted through his mind. It made him queasy, this small, vicious voice in his head feeding into the doubts he had been trying so hard to suppress. They had him walk with some distance between himself and Ivan, only inches but those seemed like miles to him, and they made it impossible to relax in the other’s presence. Or talk to Dejan for whom he had definitely been the first person to contact after that public confession. These were his teammates, his friends, _family_.

He wanted to support them. He wanted to be as blasé about this whole situation as Brozo was. He _wanted_.

But it was so hard to break down that wall of anxiety he had built up over the years.

“Šime?”

Startled, he looked around and realized that Perry and Brozo had stopped a way ahead, waiting for him patiently. He jogged toward them, heart beating erratically in his chest. “Sorry. I was… thinking.” They both exchanged knowing looks, the kind Sime and Dejan would when communicating wasn’t needed and they wanted to be subtle about something. He pretended not to notice.

“Anyway,” Brozo finally said. “I’m late for an appointment. See you guys for dinner, yeah?”

Perry huffed, the look he offered his friend full of judgement. “You didn’t have to tag along if you’ve got somewhere to be, idiot.”

Brozo smiled. He untangled his arms and straightened his shirt. “Needed to be ready to fight if they had decided to get rid of you, though!”

Which was why Šime had come along, as well. Not the fighting bit because what could they have done aside from protesting? But Ivan had been nervous even if he downplayed it, and given how many in the team, the _coach_ had reacted – as if he were dangerous, a bomb that could go off any moment, something they needed to be careful around – the worries hadn’t been unfounded nor illogical. Šime’s father would always complain that he took too much after his mother, but he couldn’t help it: he cared, despite his bloody anxiety, and he hated seeing the otherwise confident Ivan being self-conscious and nervous about anything.

They came to a halt at the staircase leading down to the foyer. People were bustling around downstairs, which explained the solitude upstairs, and there was a throng of reporters at the entrance being kept in check by the security while questioning what looked like the head of their PR. Brozo walked a little ahead toward the lifts while Perry leaned over the banister and observed the masses down, lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well, I might not be the heart of Real Madrid or Super Mario, but I’m not _that_ disposable either. Besides, they seem to have a plan or something, been in talks with the other clubs and some activists.”

That was surprising. Šime hadn’t expected the club to react so swiftly but maybe they had learned one thing or another from the Barcelona fiasco.

Albeit, their own media storm hadn’t been as bad as Coutinho’s one from what Šime had read, which didn’t mean that it was all rosy and peach. It probably ended up being a tad bit more mellow because with so many players coming forward _willingly_ , people were more confused than outraged. For now. The shock and confusion were definitely Luka’s doing first though – the world loved him and with all the accomplishments he had achieved in this year, his admission had been a harsh wake-up call. Also, he suspected that within Italy, Juventus would end up receiving most of the heat.

Brozo grinned, wide and cheeky. “Don’t worry, you’re a class of your own!” And he disappeared inside one of the three lifts.

“I am not sure if that was a compliment or an insult,” Perry said drily. Then, without another word, he started to walk down the stairs.

Panicked, Šime tried to reach for him but almost missed a step when his grabbed air. “What are you doing?!”

Perry threw him a wicked glance over his shoulder. “I'm thirsty. The vending machine is there.”

“As are the reporters!” Which the guy _knew_. Sighing in defeat, Šime trudged after him, hoping they would go unnoticed. Of course, that wasn’t possible. Everyone was probably hoping to catch a glimpse of Perry hence, being high on alert. Thank God for the security although, they would definitely get chewed out for this later.

The vending machine was next to the reception and right in viewing sight of the entrance where the whole circus was taking place. Šime hunched his shoulders, not liking the attention in the least, but Ivan wasn’t bothered at all. He leisurely walked up to the machine, chose whatever he wanted and crouched down as he waited for it to fall down. As if this was normal.

If Šime looked carefully enough though he could see tension in the straight line of his spine and that had him deflate a little.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Perry eventually said.

He shrugged tersely, caught off-guard. “I don’t have much to say?”

Ivan straightened up and turned around, a can of apple juice in one hand and grape juice in the other. He offered the apple one to Šime before leaning back against the machine, eyes only briefly skimming toward the reporters who had gotten louder and were trying to catch his attention. “I didn’t mean just today.”

Šime averted his gaze, shame bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Had he really been this obvious?

Perry clicked his tongue in disapproval. “If you don’t feel okay with me or-”

“It’s not _that_!” he cut him off hastily, voice an octave higher than necessary. Having Perry’s whole attention focused on himself like this was nerve-wrecking, though. The guy was scarily good in reading people. Nervously, he rubbed a hand over his left forearm. “I don’t- I just need time. Everything’s _different_ all of a sudden.”

There was a doubtful touch to the downturn of Perry’s mouth, but he nodded, anyway. “Fair enough. But don’t force yourself if it’s hard to be around me.”

 _Way to make me feel awful_. “It’s not you, okay?”

“ _It’s me_ ,” Perry parroted back in a sugary sweet tone. “Shouldn’t we go on a date first before breaking up already?”

Šime cracked the smallest of smiles. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Probably.” Perry popped open his can and took a large gulp. “As for the date thing, someone else might have objections. Do me a favor and call him up, yeah? If I have to endure his pathetic whining any longer, I’ll pay the Liverpool squad to drown him.”

 _Oh_. “He’s been harassing you?” _I’m going to kill him_.

“Unfortunately. But on a positive note: he’s handling himself well so far despite the English fans being shit to him. Unlike other idiots who’re making the headlines as ghosts.”

It would have been a field day for the English media and fans who had been giving Dejan shit for years now, Šime reckoned. And if that didn’t serve to have Šime’s stomach in knots… The coldness of his juice can had him shiver.

He blinked distractedly when something else occurred to him, though. “Ghosts?”

A lopsided grin formed on Ivan’s face, making him look softer. “Google Ante.”

What did-

“ _Perišić!_ ”

Šime didn’t even know how it happened. One moment, they were fine, talking, and the next there were four or five people crowding them, mics pushed into Perry’s face, voices spinning into a myriad of undisguisable noises and cameras flashing. He found himself pushed into Perry’s shoulder, losing his grip around his juice in the process.

 _Shit_. They would definitely get chewed out for this.

Ivan steadied him with one hand, the one that was holding his drink, and was swatting mics out his way with the other one. Šime could practically feel the tautness of his whole body as if ready to snap any moment now. Which was- really, he provoked this!

The only things he was able to catch from the jumble of voices talking over each other was _quirk, Modrić_ and _career_. Where was the bloody security?

“Maybe we should…” he trailed off, the sentence caught in his throat when he noticed the black _something_ emanating from Perry’s shoulders. Was that smoke? Clouds? Instinctively, he stepped away, pulse racing wildly. He wasn’t the only one to notice – it was as if someone had pushed the mute button on the whole foyer.

The black clouds rose over Perry’s head and came together to slowly mold a hazy form. “Of course, you’d do that,” Šime heard Ivan mutter drily but he couldn’t really focus on anything except that shadow taking the form of what looked like a bird right in front of his eyes. It was completely black safe for the white eyes and as tall as Ivan’s upper body. In any other universe it might have been amusing that Perry’s sentient being – quirk – had such a stark resemblance to a chicken. Right now, though, nerves were dancing beneath Šime’s skin, _itching_ , and he didn’t even realize when his nails started to dig into his forearm, yet the pain kept him grounded. He was anything but amused.

The creature stared impassively at everyone in vicinity, even floated closer to the nearest reporter, a middle-aged woman who scrambled back with a terrified gasp on her lips. “Well,” it said almost disappointedly. The voice was definitely not human. It too deep and gravelly and seemed to echo off the walls around them. “This is no fun. I thought there were questions!”

Šime caught Ivan’s exasperated look. “He’s always wanted this kind of attention,” he whispered.

And it was just an idea, a suspicion but – Perry had been adamant about strolling in front of the media and provoking on onslaught, hadn't he? Had this been some kind of elaborate plan to outsmart his quirk? Šime wished the floor would just swallow him up. They were dead, anyway. “I guess you just joined Ante’s _idiots’_ group,” he found himself saying, strangled and faint.

The chicken-shadow’s head swiveled into his direction and Šime took another step back, praying it wouldn’t want to come near him. Its eyes narrowed to slits. “Not that he minds, you know? Idiots of the same kind flock together.”

That was definitely a camera that went off somewhere. And could he even blame them? News couldn’t get any juicier than this.

 

* * *

 

“My father?” Ivan hissed when the paw that had been nudging him to get insistently dug a little too sharply into his hip. Lio threw him a questioning glance from where he just passed the ball to Thiago on the other side of the garden. He wasn't sure whether Lio had heard him hiss or was curious about his phone call, so he ignored it, stuck his phone between his shoulder and ear and let the dog place its large head in his lap while petting it soothingly. “When?”

“Just this morning,” Coach Dalić replied. He sounded wary and tired, and Ivan wondered how much he was dealing with. Being the coach of the national team, whose players had caused quite the uproar... “It was a suggestion and he wanted to hear my thoughts on it before putting it forth to your clubs. Which he might do any time now, I guess.”

Annoyance flared inside of him, tinged with the slightest hint of bitterness. Ivan hadn’t known about any of this. He hadn’t even talked to his father for a while now. But still, if his Dad wanted to help with the quirk-situation then that was something he should have been involved in. He _was_ already involved. Swallowing down his annoyance, he rested his chin between Hulk's ears and watched how Phil was entertaining a giggling Mateo by letting him float in the air, just a few inches over the grass. Thiago was more interested in watching his brother than kicking the ball with his father, it seemed. “So, what do you think then?”

Dalić hummed thoughtfully. “Well, it’s depending on a lot of factors, isn’t it? The Swiss government might not want its heroes to get into our business.” _Or lose the edge it has over other countries_. “But that’s just one thing. How long does it usually take to obtain a license?”

Ivan’s stomach churned with sudden nerves and there was an unpleasant taste on his tongue. If his father had talked to his coach, shouldn't he have explained all of this already? “Depends. Some students are able to get it within the first year at their academy.” Though, they were taught the basics of how to control their quirks from the moment they developed it. Someone who had to teach themselves or never bothered to learn... Ivan couldn't judge. “But we can’t expect pro football players to undergo that whole procedure – they might not even want to.” Quirks or not, every one of them loved football with a burning passion. They wouldn’t want to compromise their careers more than already done. “And not every kind of quirk is suitable for the hero system so, not everyone is able to get one of those licenses.” Which was bullshit, in his opinion. There was more to these abilities than just brute force; but an indoctrinated system was hard to change.

“I fully agree. But your father wasn’t talking about a complete schooling, just some training. Enough to validate that they can control their powers perfectly fine and don’t pose a danger to the general public.”

“I can’t believe that’s something they have to prove,” Ivan muttered angrily. Luka, Phil, all the guys had lived among the so-called general public their whole lives and have never harmed a single soul. At least, not in a way that he was aware of. And he highly doubted that those who _wanted_ to hate them would look at any proofs.

“That’s the world we live in,” Dalić replied gently. “We have to at least try, right? That’s a long-term initiative anyway, and your father has to get it approved, first. But I think the educating part is reasonable _and_ doable. Starting off with your clubs and whatever your PR teams can come up with, if everyone agrees. That’s actually why I’m calling you.”

Intrigued, Ivan lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“International break. How about you run test lessons with the team? We’ll see about the media inclusion.”

Ivan thought back to his Barca teammates. They seemed fine – on a surface level, at least. When it came to outside opposition, they stood with the club for better or worse. Yet, Ivan had noticed Jordi being wary of Phil or Arturo giving him a wide berth or Denis nervously stumbling over his words when talking to him. They had been so busy with handling the media and fans and people in general that no one had had the time nor mind to address the elephant in their own room. Maybe they were worried about said elephant trampling all over the solidarity they had been able to maintain thus far, as tense as it was.

If he honestly thought about it, Ivan realized that it might have been due to Lio that the team was sticking together, and the club was trying to deal with the mess instead of getting rid of the problem. But was that even strong enough a foundation for them to keep going?

Of course, what coach Dalić said made sense. Most people didn't even understand quirks, how they worked and what drawbacks they had. Ignorance and fear and the unwillingness to learn were a root cause for what their society was like. Besides, they couldn’t underestimate the influence each of them had on their fans – seeing their favorites gaining more knowledge on quirks and standing by their teammates might encourage them to think beyond prejudices. For instance, Luka’s confession hadn’t caused such a violent and sudden outrage as Phil’s situation had. Maybe people were just too surprised that he came forward with it on his own although, Ivan was sure that Luka’s popularity and reputation played a huge role in that. For now.

But could Ivan do this? It had been years since he had touched upon anything quirk-related. And was this the reason his father had spoken directly to Dalić instead of him? Hoping he would hear it out from his soft-spoken coach rather than father?

“Ivan?”

He blinked, snapped out of his musings. “Sorry, I- sure. I could try.” He winced the moment those words left his mouth.

The answer, though, pleased his coach. “Great! It’s short-notice but I think you’ll be fine.”

 _Did my father say that, too_? Suppressing that petty thought, he instead asked, “What about our matches?” The league ones were on hold although, the club was willing to let Phil sit out some if necessary - and Ivan really itched for a good game.

“Well, it’s up to our opponents. The British media is anything but thrilled about us but it’s the team’s call, really.”

Ivan snorted. Oh, he could imagine how _thrilled_ the Brits were. Especially after the headlines Dejan made earlier. “And the friendlies? Aren't we supposed to play against NK Bjelovar?”

“We’ll see.” Which didn’t sound reassuring at all. What, was their own country trying to boycott them now? Ivan hadn’t dared to follow any news outlet yet, but it couldn't be pretty. “People aren’t happy. This affects quite a lot of our players and all of them were crucial for our biggest success in history. The government is keeping quiet though which could be good for us. Still, it’s… not an ideal situation back home.”

No surprise there. Could the football federation kick out players? Although, Ivan doubted they would dare to do so. Maybe it was luck on their part, but the fact that their quirk-users had been and still were such important parts of the team seemed to be playing to their advantage.

There was a voice in the background, low and unfamiliar, talking to Dalić before the man returned his focus to Ivan. “I’ll talk to you again. Press conference.”

“You sound very enthusiastic.”

“I’ve lost count on how many times I have been called up for interviews, statements and everything.”

Ivan grimaced in sympathy. “Good luck.”

He put the phone aside and pressed his forehead against the dog's head which was acknowledged by a low whining. He let out a long, tired sigh.

Someone sat down next to him. “You seem upset,” Lio commented drily.

Ivan shrugged. Was he upset? Not really. A little agitated, maybe somewhat anxious, but not really upset. He just wished that his father had talked to him about this beforehand, instead of letting Dalić invite him into cold waters. It wasn’t as if he would have rejected the proposal or reacted badly to it. He wasn’t a child anymore, and he wouldn’t break when _quirks_ were mentioned in his presence.

There were more important things on the line than his feelings, after all.

For a brief moment, he considered telling Lio what the call had been about. He hadn’t been able to breach the topic of his own upbringing and family with anyone yet mainly because there never seemed to be a right moment. But then, he glanced toward the children, Thiago having joined Mateo in doing somersaults in the air while Phil seemed highly concentrated on not dropping them and decided against it. Maybe later.

“What exactly are you planning to do?” He wanted to add more to that but was distracted by his phone buzzing to life. Hulk growled unhappily but didn't move. When he saw who it was, he wished he had ignored the message – it would have been easier than to deal with the sudden bout of exasperation filling him.

‘ _I think Šime hates me._ ’

Usually, Ivan was a very sympathetic man. But he didn’t have to deal with a desperate Dejan Lovren on a regular basis, _usually_ , either. ‘ _Really? That’s all you have to say?_ ’

There was nothing for a moment and he could practically see Dejan pause to consider whether the question was a serious one or a rhetoric one. ‘ _Is this about the fire?_ ’

‘ _Did you do anything else I should know about?_ ’

“Plan? I don’t have one,” Lio was saying. He was leaning back on his hands and observing his sons, a soft smile on his lips. “But Real’s got the same problem we have, so I'll talk to Ramos. Our match schedules are on hold for now, anyway. But if the other league teams don’t want to play against us, we’ll just have to stick with each other, right? A private _Clasico_ , maybe.”

Ivan hadn't been expected this kind of answer. “You’re going to propose a match to Real Madrid?”

“Yes.”

Why was he even surprised, though? He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Lio, you do know that football’s not the solution for everything, right?”

He got a lopsided grin in reply. “Never said anything about solutions.”

Dejan piped up again. ‘ _I was trying to get Šime's attention?_ ’

Sometimes, Ivan really pitied Šime. It had to be difficult to deal with _this_ as much as the man had to. ‘ _Did it work?_ '

 _'No. And now your evil name-sake's ignoring me too.'_ Unsurprising.

Albeit, it _was_ worrying that Šime hadn't contacted Dejan yet, he surely had his reasons. Besides, they would see each other within a day. Why make such a fuss? ' _And now, the truth._ ’

What he got next wasn’t identifiable, but he assumed it was supposed to be an angry emoji of sorts. Followed by, ‘ _I was trying to light a candle, okay?_ ’

A _candle_. Disbelievingly, Ivan stared at those words but no matter how long he looked, they didn't change. Dejan had tried to light a candle and ended up burning down Salah’s front door? Ivan wasn’t sure what was scarier, Dejan’s apparent lack of control over his own quirk or how quickly the British media had reported the incident as if they had nothing better to do than to watch Dejan’s every move like hawks awaiting their prey.

The vatreni chat sprung to life in that moment as well, and really, that was all Ivan had been doing for a while: handling these guys. Despite this being a group chat, it seemed like everyone had questions and expected Ivan to answer them, somehow. At least, they were mindful enough not to bother Luka.

‘ _How am I supposed to get Ante through the airport?_ ’ Andrej was asking.

Alright, this was a valid concern. It had been Lovre's suggestion that someone close enough to Ante should accompany him on the flight to Croatia, given his predicament. They had been hopeful that Ante's problem would solve itself sooner rather than later but apparently, that wasn't the case. Was that normal, though? Didn’t his suppressors work?

‘ _Strip him_ ,’ Tin replied. ‘ _No one has to know he’s there._ ’

It was disturbing how Ivan could practically hear Domo speak through the kid.

‘ _tf???_ ’

‘ _I am NOT stripping!_ ’

‘ _You’re invisible. No need to be shy._ ’ After a beat, Tin added, ‘ _And Krama can do it for you._ ’

‘ _NO!!!_ ’

Livi chimed into the conversation. ‘ _Wait. To be totally invisible, you have to be naked?_ ’

‘ _scroll up. we talked about it looong - it's funny_ ’

‘ _I hate every single one of you._ ’

That, Ivan could sympathize with. Somewhat. ‘ _Okay, no one’s stripping anyone,_ ’ he told them and added, just for emphasize of course, an emoji of a finger raised in warning. Ante was rather shy off the field, he would rather die than strip naked in public even if invisible, and he didn’t want to imagine the mortification of anyone, but especially Ante if his quirk decided to malfunction while he was naked. ‘ _Just, dunno. Cover him from head to toe? Get a letter from his club explaining this?_ ’

Tin reacted to that with a sleeping emoji.

‘ _Fine_ ,’ Andrej replied. ‘ _I’ll think about something._ ’

An especially loud but delighted shriek from Mateo had Ivan glance toward the trio. They made a cute picture: Phil sitting cross-legged in front of a makeshift goal, the boys circling around him in the air. There was a reddish hue around them, the same shade as Phil's hands had turned. Lio seemed completely relaxed about the whole situation, Ivan noted, and he wondered whether the man had prior experience with quirks or was just very open minded.

He was about to put away his phone, ready to ignore any more messages for now, but stopped when he saw one from Luka pop in. They hadn’t talked since Luka’s confession and only in this moment, when immense relief flooded him, did Ivan realize how worried he had actually been. The relief didn't last for long, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me longer than anticipated, lol. Life's a bit hectic right now and I'll be really busy till next Friday (and hopefully, only till then but who knows), but I couldn't rest without finishing this chapter. And it just didn't want to be done, smh, ugh... Anyway, I also took some liberties with names. I don't know, when I think of "Ivan", Rakitic comes to mind first. "Perry" just sounds sweet so I went with it inconsistently, lol. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Until next one! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done. We're getting somewhere, slowly, lol. I also wanted to mention that I might (depending on how satisfied I'll be with it) post the first piece of the complete AU soon, in case anyone's interested. Until then! <3

Šime's silence was driving Dejan mad.

He hadn’t meant to annoy the others about it as much as he had ended up doing. But what else was he supposed to do? When he had a lot to say, when he felt _too_ much to clearly grasp any one emotion, the first person he usually turned toward was Šime. He could always make sense of the chaos raging inside of Dejan as if Dejan was a language he had spent his life speaking. Now, with his mind in complete disarray, thoughts and doubts were overlapping and creating a constant, agitating buzz in his head. He couldn’t turn it off – not until he was assured that everything was _fine_.

Perry had been the obvious first person to contact. Unfortunately, Ivan Perišić wasn’t known for his patience nor willingness to gossip and hadn’t alleviated any of Dejan’s worries. In hindsight, that might have been because he himself didn’t know how to.

“If you continue with that,” Mo said from the driver’s seat, his voice loud enough to cut through to him, “steam will come out of your ears.”

Dejan stopped the jerky up and down movements of his right knee and glanced at his friend. It was difficult to focus. “Continue with what?”

“ _Thinking_.”

“Oh, ha, ha, ha,” he retorted drily.

At the next red light, Mo turned toward him, one eyebrow raised doubtfully. “I don’t even get how your mind works, _akhi_.”

He let that foreign word, _akhi_ , bounce on his tongue without uttering it out aloud, the feeling of it making it easier to concentrate on the here and now. “Why would you even want that?”

Mo rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You’ve been getting shit from left, right and center without caring about it but the one thing that’s freaking you out is Vrsaljko?”

For a split second, he was tempted to correct his friend’s pronunciation- the _j_  was too hard and made it impossible to understand what he was saying- but pushed the urge down. That wasn’t the point. “Well, he’s _Šime_.”

What did he care about the bloody English media hunting him down? They had always hated his guts and their own fans gave him crap regularly. This quirk situation was simply more fuel for them, an opportunity presented on a golden platter – of course, they would devour it like the hungry wolves they were. Over the years, Dejan had learned not to care much. Strangers hating him didn’t concern him. But Šime? That was another story.

“I know,” Mo sighed as he regarded him thoughtfully, features contorted with a concern that warmed Dejan’s chest. As the light turned green, Mo focused back on the street, the car in motion once again.

It was simple. _I know_. What it conveyed, though, was, _I understand_. Coming from anyone else, this might have sounded superficial but Dejan didn’t doubt that Mo really understood the chaos raging inside of him in a way no one except Šime did yet, not exactly how Šime would have. And that Mo simply got his urge to talk to Šime.

Dejan observed Mo from the side, glad for the street lamps that would occasionally light up the insides of the car. There were dark circles beneath Mo’s eyes and a pale touch to his face. A patch of grime still clung to his left cheekbone, just above where his beard started hence, it was barely perceptible. Mo hadn’t looked upset; not when Dejan had camped out in his living room as if it was the most natural thing to do, not when he had entertained his daughter with spark-plays throughout the night, and definitely not when he had dragged Dejan away from the suffocating smoke first and made sure he was okay before putting out the fire on his door. There hadn’t even been any scolding or questions.

Šime would have had his head for that last one because, despite his tendencies for pranks and generally lax attitude, he took the safety of people he cared about deadly serious. There was no room for leniency then, especially not if a friend was putting themselves _and_ others in danger. Mo, on the other hand preferred to hold his tongue rather than further upset someone who was already upset.

“You’ll see him in a bit,” Mo eventually said, tone soft and soothing. “And he’ll have his reasons, I’m sure.”

Dejan huffed, unconvinced. Everyone was saying that – _reasons_.

He could already guess those, but his heart, a heavy weight in his chest, refused to believe. Yet, what other reason might there be? When Šime didn’t comment on a delicate situation that definitely warranted his input, it usually was because he didn’t want to hurt feelings. Him staying silent about this whole scenario, not saying anything about Dejan having a quirk, could only mean that he had issues with this. It seemed so fucking ridiculous. Out of everyone…

He vehemently shook his head, determined to chase away these depressing thoughts. There would be no peace for him if he dwelled on this any longer. It would only upset him further and the more upset he was the uglier an eventual fight with Šime would turn.

Instead, he voiced the first thought he could make sense of. “I heard Hendo and Adam talking.”

Mo’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the handle. There were no lights here and Dejan despised how he couldn’t read Mo’s expression. “About Phil? _Everyone_ has heard that conversation, I’m sure.”

Dejan winced guiltily and hastily looked away, staring out into the darkness without seeing anything. Alright, this wasn’t the best of topics he could have chosen to distract himself with. But it was the first that came to mind – it had been bothering him ever since he had heard those rumors for the first time when Phil’s news had broken out. They had been bothering the whole team, leaving tension and unease amid them.

“What, do you think they are right?”

He pressed his forehead against the glass of the window and sighed, relishing the coldness seeping into him. The buzzing in his head was getting louder, though. “I don’t know.”

It was possible. Phil had been jumpy and increasingly uncomfortable the months before Barca had approached him. It had been odd, but no one had questioned it – Phil had this ability to dissipate any concern with one of his boyish smiles. And Bobby had seemed fine, too, which they had accepted as assurance. If anything had been wrong, surely Bobby would have helped or told them about it.

Then, from one day to another, after having been so determined and ecstatic about the transfer, Phil had decided to stay at Liverpool. Dejan could still remember having been confused when Klopp had informed them about that. It had literally come out of nowhere. And Phil, despite his sweet smiles and assuring words, hadn’t ever seemed content with his decision.

So, really, it was only natural for everyone to wonder, _Had the club or anyone higher up known about Phil’s quirk?_ The question and its implications made Dejan sick the longer he contemplated them. And he might not know what had prompted Luka to make his public confession, but after the Phil fiasco, the rumors and his own feelings of relief about not carrying around such a huge secret anymore, he had his suspicions.

Mo hummed non-committedly. “Even if they knew, why would they leak the information? _Now_?”

“Who knows?” Club politics, after all, were a very messy business. Dejan wondered how long it would take for someone to ask Klopp outright. Or maybe Phil would be willing to tell him now that they were basically sitting in the same boat. Did he still use his old number? Ivan would surely know.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Mo finally said. “You should focus on yourself. And calm down, would you? Any hotter and I’ll probably start to _cook_.”

Surprised, Dejan jerked upright in his seat and frantically took in the car as if he could see the heat. Though, Mo was right – his skin _was_ unusually hot. And there were pearls of sweat glistening at Mo’s hairline. _Goddammit_. “Sorry,” he muttered and took a few calming breaths, willing the fire simmering beneath his skin to calm down.

Mo’s lips curled into a teasing smile, one he could make out even through the darkness. “As long as you don’t burn us down.”

“It was an _accident_!”

An embarrassing one at that. He was just glad that no one had been close enough to get seriously hurt. It wasn’t that he lacked complete control over his own quirk, though! Well, he could control his body temperature at will and small flames weren’t any problem. Anything larger than a spark though needed a lot of concentration on his part and yet, he could never get a feel for _actual_ flames. It was like trying to balance on a thin rope in the air with a weight in his hands: tilting even slightly to one side, and he lost control over his body, limbs flailing helplessly.

He should have also considered the _wooden_ door while playing with fire close to it.

“Be more careful when using it, then.” Mo glanced at him, and as a streak of moonlight flit inside, he could see the worry flickering in those dark eyes. “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“My own flames can’t hurt me, Mo.”

“But they can harm others and that would hurt you. So, be careful, yeah?”

A disbelieving smile tugged at Dejan’s mouth. “Honestly, you should stop being so good to me.”

Mo just shrugged.

Fishing out his phone from his jacket, Dejan checked the time. Almost midnight. There were also many new messages and a new picture Trent had sent him. He clicked on it curiously. It was a screenshot from a chat between Trent and Jesse Lingard – why did they even have each other’s numbers?

 _‘start renting him out in winter,’_ Lingard had written.

_‘Dejo?’_

_‘Think about it_  
he’s a walking heater  
you’d make good money _୧_ _☉□☉_ _୨’_

“Fucking Brits,” Dejan muttered although, without any heat.

“Who?”

He waved his phone at Mo. “Lingard. Says you guys could make good money by renting me out as a human heater during the winter.”

Mo chuckled at that, eyes crinkling. “He isn’t wrong there.”

There was a teasing retort on his tongue, but it got stuck somewhere between his teeth when he noticed that amidst all the messages piled up from the Vatreni chat group, there was one he hadn’t noticed immediately. From a few hours ago. Heart pounding painfully against his ribcage, he clicked on Šime's name.

‘ _Sorry. We’ll talk, okay?_ ’

 

* * *

 

Luka should feel guilty, he supposed. And probably a tad embarrassed. But Ivan’s fingers were carding through his hair, trying hard to soothe the anxiety wrecking havoc within him, and he couldn't do anything but concentrate on his breathing. It breathing was shaky and his hands, covering his face, were still trembling with the remnant of utter terror. So, so stupid. To have a freak-out _now_ when he had managed to stay calm for so long. Where was the logic in that?

“Seriously, Luka. I am _fine_.”

Ivan’s movements stilled as did the next intake of breath he had been struggling with. He could feel Ivan's gaze, observing him carefully. But even weightier was the displeasure rolling off in waves from Gareth; Gareth who shouldn't have been here to begin with. He didn’t dare look at any of them least of all they saw what a mess he was.

“ _Luka_!”

Gareth had been fine apart from being a little pale around the nose, back in the hospital. But his eyes… Luka shuddered at the memory of Gareth’s usually light eyes being covered by several thin, grey threads. As if the pupils had been replaced by spider webs, constantly moving ones. Sergio had forced him to wear sunglasses – which he did only after Luka had practically begged him to – but the image was burnt into Luka’s mind. The glasses were nothing but a deception that didn't work on him.

Ivan slid closer, their sides pressing against each other. Only after did he register that Gareth’s steps had been moving into their direction and stopped abruptly. The air in the dingy hallway was suffocating; it burnt in his lungs.

“Did they discharge you?” Ivan asked quietly.

Gareth groaned in frustration. “I’m not sick or hurt! Why wouldn’t they?”

Maybe because having been completely unresponsive for over a day wasn’t light enough a matter to just brush aside like nothing? And if it honestly wasn’t such a big deal, as Gareth claimed, why was he _here_ instead of on his way for the national break? Wasn't he missing his flight? Did anyone know he had come after Luka? But Luka hadn’t even told Sergio and Marcelo when he left, let alone where he was going. Did Perez tell them?

“Look, I get why you’re here-”

“Then you should tell Luka to talk to me!”

Which was the bloody  _problem_! Luka removed his hands from his face and stared at them, agitated. The nerves jumping anxiously through his veins slowly morphed into a well of frustration. Why was this big oaf so stubborn? It wasn’t like Luka was leaving Real Madrid for good, they could talk once club football resumed – and any residual traces of his quirk vanished from Gareth’s system.

“I can’t let- look, I know what happened, okay? And I’m not mad, it was an accident. It’s fine, rea-”

“ _Gareth_!”

That had the other man snap his mouth shut instantly. In any other situation, Luka would have been glad. But the way Gareth struggled to keep his lips pressed into a thin line, or was he trying to open them? And how his brows furrowed in confusion and annoyance, and Luka could basically _see_ the glazed over look behind those thick, black glasses. No, he wasn't glad. He felt as if he was going to choke on the nerves crawling up his throat.

Ivan’s fingers retracted completely from his hair as he slowly heaved himself to his feet. Although, Luka couldn’t see it, he could sense the exhaustion from his friend. The sudden trip from Barcelona to Madrid on such a short notice that tired him so much, constantly worrying about the whole situation, especially Luka’s fuck-up, the long hours spent at the hospital despite him having always hated hospitals and clinics; of course, Ivan had to be beat.

Now, the guilt was rearing its ugly head. Mixed with the dread pooling into the pit of his stomach upon the prospect of Gareth's unexpected confrontation, Luka felt light-headed.

“And _that_ ,” Ivan sighed, “is exactly the reason why he won’t talk to you.” Gareth flinched, snapped out of a trance. For a heartbeat, he looked disoriented. Once he seemed to regain his senses, frustration etched into the sour lines around his mouth and eyes, he was about to say something, but Ivan beat him to it. “I think we all need a little break from everything, Bale. Luka’s not… he’s coming back to Madrid, anyway. Okay?”

Gareth’s shoulders sagged, and any fight he might have had in him disappeared. He was staring at Luka for long, unnerving minutes before he took an uncertain step forward and buried both his hands into the pockets of his baggy adidas jacket. “I just don’t want you to beat yourself up over this.”

And honestly, that just made it so much worse.

With his muscles protesting slightly, Luka stood up, barely grimacing at the numbness in his left leg, and moved forward to hug Gareth. It was an awkward hug, him stretching on his toes and Gareth hesitating to return it. Which was fine. There wasn’t much else he expected, anyway.

Although, Gareth was conscious again – Luka still wasn’t sure whether that happened on its own or whether Ivan did something – he was still _obedient_. When Luka talked, Gareth listened with the attention of someone caught in a tunnel vision, completely unaware of anything else going on around him. It was like he breathed in each word that toppled over Luka’s tongue, turning it into oxygen. And if Luka told him to do something- put on the sunglasses, take rest, shut up- even if he didn’t mean it, even if there was no heat to any of this, Gareth’s mind, still muddled with the threads of Luka’s quirks, perceived it all as orders.

This coupled with the eyes, it was new. Never before had anything like this happened and Luka honest to God wasn’t sure how he was keeping the disgust bubbling beneath his skin at bay.

Gareth sighed into his hair before returning the hug with one arm. “Fine. I’ll just… yeah. I’ll let you know once this…” He pushed back, glanced at Ivan uncertainly before motioning toward his face.

Luka nodded, stepped back and forced a small smile on his lips. It didn’t fool Gareth, but he was merciful enough to just return it with his own grimace of a smile. Then, he nodded at Ivan, turned sharply away and walked down the hallway, hurriedly. Had he risked missing his flight just so he could catch Luka before leaving? Was he even going to join the Welsh national team, considering his current state? _I should have_... By now, he wasn't even sure anymore what he should or shouldn't have done.

“You know, I don’t think it’s half as bad.”

He whirled around, nose scrunched up disgruntledly. “What?”

Ivan fell back into the wall and lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Accidents happen. But Bale seems fine for the most part, so it's not that bad.”

“Seriously. How are you so calm about this?”

It was beyond his understanding. He had made him come to Madrid, waste his time in a hospital, they both would join the national team late, and most of all: Luka had messed up. If not for Sergio’s quick thinking and Marco and Isco’s willingness to bait away the masses at his home, Gareth’s hospital trip would have made the headlines by now. And how pathetic was that? He had so confidently thrown everyone under the bus with his confession and yet, he couldn’t even handle his own quirk and its repercussions without the help of the others.

“Lately, I’ve done nothing,” Ivan said drily, “but read about Eintracht’s ghost, a chicken monster scaring a bunch of reporters shitless, Dejan burning down doors, and the kids cracking stupid jokes about the whole situation. I’m way past freaking out over anything.”

Luka had only a vague idea about what Ivan was referring to. But hearing that Ivan had been busy with taking care of the mess he had created did nothing to assuage the persistent tugs of guilt inside of him. He tugged at his hair, lowering his gaze to stare at Ivan’s worn-out sneakers. “Sorry. You were probably busy anyway and I...”

“Not your fault,” Ivan said, waving his concerns aside. “I don’t mind, you know? Besides, you didn’t ask me to come over, that was my decision. I’m just happy that you wanted my help. Even if I couldn’t do much.”

The last part was grumbled, barely above a whisper and probably not meant for his ears. Intrigued, Luka tilted his head. “So, Gareth woke up by himself?”

Ivan’s mouth twitched into a strange sort of grimace, like his muscles weren’t sure whether to move up or down. “Yeah. It’s not like I could have done anything, anyway, I’m no expert.” He paused, forehead creased. “I mean, I asked someone, and she wanted me to check up on Bale and maybe get access to his medical files. But that wasn’t needed anymore.”

 _Right_. Albeit, in stressful situations, Luka’s mind generally tended to automatically suggest that Ivan would know what to do, he forgot that that wasn’t far-fetched, actually. Not for their current predicament, at least, although Ivan denied his own usefulness for whichever reason. How did that man even manage to afford the energy to fight Luka over feeling bad yet, give himself so little credit? “Someone with a quirk?”

“Na.” Ivan chuckled lightly; it sounded bitter to Luka’s ears. “Just a doctor who researches quirks. She’s friends with my Mom and works in the agency as their medical head.”

 _Agency_. Luka turned that word over in his mind. A _hero_ agency. It was too bizarre for him to imagine the kind of world Ivan came from. Of course, he had always known that his friend grew up in Switzerland but growing up there and being directly affiliated to a family of pro-heroes were two different things, weren’t they? There had been stories about the country he would pick up here and there over the years, about its heroes and the system that supported quirk users, but it had been nothing more than fairytales to him. _Unreal_.

Thinking back on it, Luka wondered why no one had ever asked Ivan about his life back at home.

Though, not for the first time, Luka noted that this topic made Ivan uncomfortable. He scrutinized the other thoughtfully, trying to put his finger on what exactly the source of this discomfort was. This _bitterness_ that laced his words when he spoke of his family and a life Luka didn’t know about. It couldn’t be that Ivan was averse toward quirks considering how well he had received so many of his friends coming clean about those.

What was it that Ivan had said when Luka had asked whether he had a quirk? _Guess I’ll be the odd one from now on, huh?_ Somehow-

“Stop that!”

Luka flinched, losing that thread of thought. “What?”

Ivan huffed, frustration etched into his features. “Don’t look at me like _that_.”

For a split second, he panicked that his quirk might have flared up without him noticing. His fingers stopped shortly before touching his right eye. But no, there wasn’t that telltale prickling sensation in his eyes. “Like what?”

Turning away from him, Ivan chewed on his lower lip as if unsure what to say. He took his time as if to contemplate how to word his thoughts. “Like you’re trying to solve a problem.”

 _Oh_. Luka crossed his wrists behind his back, the fingers of both his hands intertwined, and rocked back his heels. “Sorry.” He sounded like a broken recorder by now. “I was just wondering… is everything alright? With you and your family, I mean.”

Surprise flashed over Ivan’s face which was still half-turned away from him, but the surprise was quickly replaced by an aloofness that made Luka nervous. This, Ivan being so closed-off and bitter about something, was foreign territory; he didn't know how to deal with this. “More or less. It’s complicated.”

He nodded and let it go. This obviously wasn’t something Ivan wanted to talk about. Instead, he looked down the hallway, wondering why no one had come to pick them up yet. It shouldn’t take that long to get a private jet ready for them. “We’re getting pretty late.”

It took a moment for the other to reply, as if the sudden change in topic had caught him off-guard. “Andrej and Ante will be even later.”

He frowned. “Why?”

When Ivan finally pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to him, he seemed more relaxed which made Luka relax slightly, as well. There was even a hint of amusement flickering over Ivan's expression when he, one hand on Luka’s right shoulder, showed him the group’s messages. Not that Luka was reading them, his attention was solely focused on what Ivan was saying. “They decided to come via road. Airport seemed too much of a hassle.”

“Huh.” His frown deepened as he skimmed over the texts. “He’s still invisible?”

“Strangely enough.” Ivan stopped scrolling down and pointed at a text from this morning, Andrej saying how they had tried suppressors _and_ suppressants, but nothing was working. Somehow, he sounded hysterical even through text. And Luka could see what Ivan had meant with the kids cracking stupid jokes about the whole situation – had Tin taken a 101 course of _How To Be A Nuisance_ by Domo?

“Aren’t suppressants pretty strong?”

Ivan nodded. “Depending on their components, some stronger than others. And I highly doubt you guys get them from doctors.”

At Ivan’s probing side-glance, he shrugged sheepishly. “Too risky. But I don’t use meds, they make me sick.” They might be more effective than simple suppressing devices but the feelings they elicited once long enough in your system were disgusting. He had tried them once and felt like dying.

“They make everyone sick,” Ivan agreed. “My guess would be that Ante overdid them, but I can’t be sure.”

Luka’s insides churned uneasily at that. If that was true… he would definitely chew the kid out for playing with his health like that. _Stupid_. So goddamn irresponsible.

His head jerked when a specific name caught his attention, almost ending up with him headbutting Ivan in the chin. It caused Ivan to take a step back in surprise while Luka simultaneously tried to touch the screen and the phone nearly glided out of Ivan’s grasp. Luka caught it on reflex and Ivan’s hands, only a second slower, wrapped around his. They stared at each other, still surprised. Until Ivan chuckled, and Luka let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“What are you doing, captain?”

“Nothing!” He put the phone into Ivan’s hold, smiling. “I thought I saw Mario’s name.”

“Oh, yes. The coach asked him to join us.”

Curiously, Luka raised both his eyebrows. “Not for matches I assume?”

Ivan shook his head. “No. But he’s a part of us and a part of this mess so, he should be a part of the solutions. The coach was going to explain the game plan once everyone was there.”

Somehow, Luka was sure that Ivan knew what said plan entailed. Which wasn’t surprising; Luka himself had been out of it because of Gareth, he hadn’t kept up with what was happening around him. Ivan, on the other hand, had been taking care of the team, had most valuable knowledge of quirks and was the vice-captain. Of course, the coach would discuss his ideas with him.

“Okay,” was all he said on that topic.

Ivan stared at him probingly, as if waiting for more. When nothing came, pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Can I say something?”

“Weirdo.” Reaching out with his right hand, Luka knocked his knuckles lightly against Ivan’s forehead. “Of course.”

He was rewarded with a small but sweet smile. “My brother once flung me out of a four-story building.”

Luka’s knuckles stilled at Ivan’s warm forehead. Horror flooded him, filling up his lungs that he barely could make a sound.

Seeing his shock, Ivan’s smile thinned. “He was young, but he’s had basic training already. It was still hard for him to control his quirk especially because his is so strong. It was an accident, of course.”

He tried to picture it: a small Ivan falling down a building with his brother trying to reach for him. That had to have been horrifying, for both. Had Ivan’s brother ever gotten over the guilt? Luka used to push his own into the back of his mind, knowing fully well that if he thought about it, about any of the things he had done, he would drown and never emerge again.

“What I’m trying to say is that Dejan had proper training and still struggled a lot. You, or any of the others, never had any training – it’s not surprising that accidents happen. But they’re not your fault.”

“That’s easily said,” Luka muttered bitterly. “But I could’ve _killed_ Gareth, Ivan.”

He almost regretted saying anything when heavy, tensed silence answered him. Yet, Ivan needed to understand. These things, accidents or not, weren’t easy to brush aside. Sure, most of the time, he didn’t use his quirk intentionally on others, but what good was this certainty? He still ended up _hurting_ people. Pretending otherwise was ignorant at best and foolish at worst. Why didn’t anyone see that? Sergio, Marcelo, even Gareth wouldn’t just _see_! And Ivan…

“Excuse me?” They startled. The woman whom Perez had told them to follow earlier was standing at the other end of the hall and beckoning them over. “The flight’s ready.”

Luka was about to turn around, grateful for this distraction, but a strong tug on his shoulder had him fall back against Ivan. “We’ll just work on it, then,” Ivan murmured against his temple. “No more accidents. No more blaming.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This took me ages, smh. I wanted to have it done long back but something would always came in-between. Sorry about that! But hey, we're finally reaching the Croatian NT stage? Sort of. If that's any consolation, lol. Also, for those who haven't noticed it, I've posted a second installment to this series (it can be read independantly from this as both stories have nothing in common except quirks). Anyway, coming back to this:
> 
> Enjoy (I hope) <3

Ante didn’t know when exactly he had fallen asleep.

Last he remembered it had been light outside. Now, it was dark, and their car wasn’t moving anymore, the engine silent. He sat up slowly, grimacing as pain shot through his stiff neck. A blanket he definitely didn’t recollect having been there before slid from his shoulders into his lap. Confused, he let his gaze sway to his left, trying to make out whether he was alone. It was hard to see anything, and he found himself feeling blindly for the light switch above, flinching when the sudden stream of glaring light burnt in his eyes.

It took him several moments of frantic blinking until the black dots dancing in his vision lessened and he could see. Someone was slumped in the driver’s seat next to him, hunched in half an uncomfortable angle.

“Andrej?”

He reached out tentatively but barely grazed Andrej’s shoulder before his wrist was caught in a surprisingly strong grip. A heartbeat later, Andrej jolted awake. He looked left and right, disoriented and confused, until he looked at where Ante’s hand was supposed to be; and Ante suppressed the urge to twist it away and hide it. Though, unlike the past days when Andrej would be jumpy around him and get startled rather easily, he didn’t react much this time – just sighed and leaned a little forward, letting Ante’s knuckles touch his forehead. It did nothing to soothe the nerves crawling through his stomach as if they were trying to find a way through it, not even when he forcefully focused on the top of Andrej's short shorn hair instead of his invisible limb.

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m not cold.” Although, it was rather cool inside the car. For how long had they stopped driving? “Where are we?”

“Hotel?” Andrej yawned, long and tired, his voice slightly scratchy and the words tumbling out in quiet murmurs. “I think. Yes.”

“Ours?” he asked, surprised. “Then why are we still out here and not in?”

“You were asleep.” Andrej squeezed his wrist ever so slightly as he lifted his head, only to press his right temple into the driver’s seat as if his whole body was just too heavy for him to carry. “I was tired. Guess I just fell asleep, too.”

“Could’ve woken me,” Ante mumbled under his breath. This was ridiculous. They were at their destination and still spent the night sleeping in a car?

Andrej just waved his left hand lazily as if to dismiss his protest. “I can’t believe no one bothered to check up on us.”

“Maybe they’re sleeping too.” It was quite late, after all. He squinted at the front window, trying to make out the silhouette of the supposed hotel, but couldn’t see much through the darkness. Was it cloudy? Or was that fog?

“How’re you holding up?”

The nerves in his stomach tangled into unpleasant knots and his whole body stiffened. Were they going to do this now?  _Really_?

Albeit, he did feel okay, much better than when they had left. There was no urgent need to throw up nor any pain crushing his bones while trying to drive him crazy. But there was an uncomfortable hollowness inside of him, a feeling that left him anticipating another burst of hot pain and the longer it didn’t come, the more antsy he would become. It had been a very stupid idea to take those last pills he had had left – he had known that they wouldn’t work anymore. Making himself sick over nothing just because of hope…  _Stupider still going off the meds._ He shook his head, chasing away that admonishing voice that sounded too much like his father.

Stupid or not, he probably would do it again, swallow more if he had them just to quench that maddening need to snuff out his bloody quirk. He couldn’t even stand looking at himself like this. After retracting his hand from Andrej, he pulled out a pair of black gloves from his jacket, which he was sitting on, and put them on hastily. Once they covered every inch of invisible skin, the knots within him slowly ceased twisting and loosened.

He preferred being physically ill over  _this_.

Grey eyes observed him with an alertness that was contrary to the sleepiness evident in Andrej's features. It was too much, and he averted his gaze.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

“It bothers you too.”

He could literally feel Andrej frowning at him. “No. I was just surprised, at first. You’re not surprised but...” he trailed off uncertainly.

How was Ante supposed to explain this? He wasn’t good with words, he wasn’t much of a talker, after all. And there was hardly ever any reason to be; people around him talked plenty for him.  _It freaks me out_ , he could try but that sounded too pathetic even to his own ears. Rationally seen, there was nothing disturbing about his quirk and he knew that. Worse things existed.

Once, when he had been around nine, his father had taken him to a  _specialist_  – the man had been living not that far from their village in an old, shabby hut, isolated from the rest of the world except some strand but regular visitors. The villagers knew of him but hadn't been bothered as long as he wouldn't pose a problem. It had been one of the rare occasions since after his quirk had manifested that he had been allowed outside.

What he remembered vividly was the disgusting smell of antiseptics mixed with the foul odor of rotten eggs; and of course, the man himself, an image forever burnt into his memory: there had been  _so many eyes_  on his body. One on his forehead, three on his throat and probably more hidden under layers of clothing. Ante hadn’t even noticed his father pursuing anything, he had been too busy not to stare and simultaneously, not to throw up. For weeks, he had needed his mother and sister to soothe him into sleep.

 _That_  was disturbing. Being invisible  _wasn’t_.

Knowing this didn’t do anything to lessen the suffocating unease crawling up inside of him whenever he looked at any of his invisible body parts.

“Do you think…” He paused, wracking his brain for the right words without knowing what those should be. “Do you think it’s possible to forget what you look like?”

Andrej made a low, confused sound. “There are photos?”

“That’s not the same,” he huffed. Photos only caught a specific moment in time. But people changed, aged, evolved. Eventually, a photo wouldn’t reflect the reality anymore, would it?

“Well. You’re not going to stay like this so, it doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ve been like this for too long already,” he muttered glumly. And there was no guarantee that anyone could help him. The longer he was like  _this_ , the more trapped he felt.

Andrej sat up slowly and threw his arm behind his seat, squinting at him. “You know, your quirk seems relatively harmless overall. Compared to, like, Dejan's? So, why does this freak you out so much?”

Ante flinched at that.  _Freak you out_. He looked down into his lap where his fingers were intertwined in a deathly grip, digging into the soft blanket, and glared at nothing in particular. The others had been making fun of his situation and he had accepted that as them pulling his leg. It was more welcome than them being disgusted by his quirk – which he suspected, chest aching painfully, might be the case for Luka back at Frankfurt. But had they taken it so easily because they all thought his quirk was  _harmless_?

“Hey, Ante-”

“I become – intangible.”

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Andrej close his mouth in surprise before opening it again. “What?”

“Like a ghost,” he explained drily, the irony not lost on him. “I go  _through_  things.” And inside although, he wasn’t sure whether that only applied to living beings; he had never wanted to try it out again.  _That_  was pretty disturbing, though, and he would rather keep it to himself.

“And that happens when you’re invisible for too long?” Andrej asked, a skeptical tone underlying his words.

He shrugged. “I think so. It’s happened to me a lot when I was younger.” Not that he could remember all of those times; his childhood had been a mess of being confined to their small house and testing out various suppressors and meds, alternating between being invisible and visible, healthy and sick with longer and longer intervals between them. The process would start off with him getting stuck between walls and doors and whatnot, which could last an uncomfortably long time, until he would slide through them completely – which wasn’t a pleasant feeling, either. At the beginning even painful because going through the edge of a table could feel like his side was being cut open. “I wonder how long it would take for me to disappear completely.”

“Wait, that’s possible?!”

 _Oh_. Had he said that out aloud? He grimaced, resisting the urge to smack himself. “Maybe.” He didn’t know. But being in this state, once he lost his consistency, it felt like he was literally teetering between the here and nothingness. Losing more and more of himself. Dissolving into thin air seemed like the logical next step.

“That’s not even-” Andrej groaned in growing frustration. “You have actually no idea, do you?”

“It could be possible,” Ante insisted stubbornly. “I  _feel_  it.”

Andrej remained silent for a long, uncomfortable moment. When he broke the silence, his voice was level and measured, “Well, let’s solve your problem quickly then.”

If-

Something heavy crashed on the hood of their car. Heavy and large and  _burning_.

Ante barely heard Andrej shouting to get out when he was already hastily stumbling out of the car, catching himself before he fell on the concrete. The sharp, biting smell of smoke made him recoil further away.  _What the hell_?

“C’mon, let’s move!”

He let himself be dragged away, not really able to focus on what was going on. Where were they even going? His eyes were watering from the mix of stinging smoke and icy wind, blurring his vision, and the sizzling noises of the fire seemed louder than whatever it was that Andrej was saying. Was he even talking to him?

There was a building at their right not far from where they had left the car in the parking lot, he realized once his vision was clearer. And its entrance was lit up by raging flames, high and bright.

His throat tightened, a rush of panic shooting through his veins. “Andrej! What about the others?”

Andrej had stopped walking, coming to a halt next to a large bus, but his grip around Ante’s arm didn’t loosen. They were still in the parking lot, several cars scattered around them. The heat of the fire was streaming over carried by the wind. His gaze was wandering from their car in quite some distance now to the hotel to Ante, fear making him look frantic as he pressed his phone to his right ear. “I’m trying to reach them. There should- I mean, there’d be an emergency exit. Right?”

Naturally, there should be. Where had that fire even come from? It had been at their back but surely, they should have noticed it earlier – it was huge – if it had been burning for a while! But if it started suddenly, out of nowhere, would anyone within the building even have enough time to get out?

“…wasn’t me! I was sleeping!”

Both him and Andrej froze, staring at each other in shock – well, he was; Andrej's gaze kept flickering, not sure where to focus on.

“Stop being dramatic. It’s obvious that you’d be the first suspect.”

“Why would I want to set our hotel on fire?!”

“Because you have shitty control over your quirk.”

“Perry-!”

“Don’t call-”

“Andrej?  _Ante_?”

Ivan, wrapped into a thick blanket like a burrito, was the first one to walk around the bus and into their periphery, closely followed by Luka and Mario who had his hands pressed together while grimacing as if in pain. Dejan, Perry, Domo and Brozo appeared next, the first two still bickering. Brozo looked like he was sleepwalking, and Domo wasn’t even wearing shoes. The more of the guys came, the easier Ante could breathe. Underdressed, ragged and panicked but they seemed to be fine. Although, he shivered seeing that almost all of them were barely clothed – shorts and shirts, mostly. They had to have left in a hurry.

“You’re alright,” Andrej sighed in relief. Even his grip around Ante's arm slacked enough for him to move it away.

Ivan ruffled his already rumpled hair, the movement jerky. Was that grime on his face? “We’ll see about that. Have to check whether anyone’s missing.”

“Or hurt,” Luka added tersely. He wasn’t even paying them any attention, his gaze continuously flying over the bunch of Croatian players that had emerged behind him, alert and worried. “Tin, did you get hurt?”

Tin, who had been stumbling in between Dejan and Perry through to the front, tilted his head in confusion. “Yes?” Staring down at where his hand was wrapped around his left arm, he let go instantly and smiled sheepishly at Luka. “Just cold.”

“You’re still invisible.”

Ante didn’t know what was worse: the judgement coloring Mario’s voice, Luka’s now attentive but disappointed look, Ivan’s worried one or the dozens of curious gazes zeroing in on him as if there was nothing more interesting going on in their range. He took a step back, considering the futility of hiding behind Andrej and cursing his own quirk for being useless where it mattered. If it had to make him invisible, why couldn’t it include his bloody clothes?!

“Our hotel’s burning,” Andrej said as if sensing his apprehension. “I think that’s more important right now.”

“It wasn’t me!” Dejan reiterated once again, both his hands raised defensively. “I wasn’t anywhere near the entrance!”

“Yeah, we were both sleeping when the fire alarm sounded,” Domo agreed. Ante frowned at that. Didn’t Dejan usually share a room with Šime?

“And you couldn’t have said that earlier?”

Domo shrugged and grinned devilishly at Dejan who seemed more tired than angry.

“Well,” Mario grunted, face pulled into a grim expression, “if it was none of us, there’s really only one other option left, right?”

The implication had Ante’s insides resume its sickening twisting.

“It could have been anything,” Luka said sharply, and Ivan nodded in agreement. “No use guessing.”

Mario just huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

There were a few other, unfamiliar people streaming into the parking lot by now, giving their group a wide berth. Ante saw Dalić walking up from the end of their huddle, which consisted of Šime checking on the Markos and Milan. He was counting them one after another.

“Seems like everyone made it out fine,” Dalić said at last when he had reached Luka, sounding incredibly relieved. He also acknowledged Ante and Andrej with a jerky nod and startled frown. “The firefighters should be arriving any moment. Let me see what I can do about our lodgings. Don’t leave.”

That seemed to have been a subtle sign for everyone to scatter around, some into groups, others on their phones, but none walking far away.

Ante startled when something hit his head. He glared at Tin who had sat down in front of him on the ground and was throwing small stones at him while having the gall to smile innocently. “Say something! Are you asleep?”

“Do I look like an animal in the zoo?” he growled.

Tin shrugged. “You don’t look like anything except a headless dude.”

“Stop making fun of him, Tin,” Andrej intervened, his tone warning. And really, Ante couldn’t have been more thankful. At least, someone was on his side.

“I’m not trying to make fun of him!”  _Then stop talking_. “I’m just curious!” Tin paused, apparently considering something, before he leaned forward, cupped his mouth with one hand and said in a hushed tone, “You know, I found out about this whole situation from my coach. I walked into the locker rooms and everyone’s staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I was literally interrogated ‘cause they wanted to make sure that I don’t have a quirk.”

Andrej hummed thoughtfully at that. “Same for me, actually. But it was just the coach pulling me aside.”

Tin sighed but it was hard to say whether it was intended to express his exhaustion, or whether he was trying to be dramatic. His voice definitely sounded strange, a mix of over-the-top cheerfullness and palpable tension. “Lucky. I had Kai and Julian asking me questions like those cringe-worthy good cops and bad cops from old movies,” he muttered, shuddering – either at the memory or because of the cold. “They are terrible actors. Also, can I have that blanket?”

Ante, just realizing that he was in fact still clutching the blanket, handed it over without a word. Tin wrapped himself up and somehow even managed to cover his legs by pulling the knees up to his chest. Then, he pressed his nose into it and frowned at nothing. For a split second, Ante thought he was trying to hide himself rather than fight off the cold.

He hadn’t considered how them coming clean about their quirks might affect their other teammates. Heck, Ante wasn’t even sure what his own club thought about all of this; Mijat and Filip had been the only ones he had talked to and there really wasn’t much that could faze them, apparently. There had also been a few phone calls from the coach to enquire about his wellbeing and tell him to join his national team, but nothing substantial about what the club intended to do.

Worrying about the others hadn’t seemed important enough to him before. After all, if they were quirkless, what was there to worry about? But clearly, their clubs thought otherwise.

“Do you?” he found himself asking.

Tin paused, surprise flashing over his face. Even his slight shaking stopped momentarily, as if Ante’s question had caught him completely off-guard.

“Ante.” His focus snapped toward Ivan, but he didn't miss how Tin used that moment to bury his face into the blanket. Ivan stared at each of them thoughtfully before settling back on him. “This might not be a good time, but I really need to know: have you been taking meds to suppress your quirk?”

He could see Mario and Perry perk up, both of whom were standing close by and obviously listening in, and he couldn’t help but wince guiltily. Meds were more uncomfortable than suppressors, but they worked better for him, always had. And his parents would insist on them - it couldn't be that big a deal. Yet, the way Ivan was asking, and Mario was frowning in displeasure and Perry grimacing as if he had bitten into a lemon suggested otherwise. Andrej looking on in confused curiosity didn’t help much either.

“Yes.” Ivan’s face fell, and Ante barely suppressed another wince. “Nothing else really works!” he defended himself hastily.

Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths. “For how long?”

Ante pressed his lips into a thin line, refusing to answer.

Mario stepped forward, glaring warningly at him. “ _Ante_. How long?”

“…since I was nine,” he gave in reluctantly.

It was silent for a  _long_  moment. Maybe becoming intangible right about now wouldn’t be too bad. Although, would he be able to slip through concrete?

“I need to talk to Luka,” Ivan eventually said before promptly turning around. On his way through, he unrwapped himself and handed his own blanket over to Šime's grabby hands.

“And I need a drink,” Mario muttered, rubbing both his hands over his face. But he didn’t make any move to leave.

Perry lifted one shoulder a little helplessly. “Well. That explains a lot, I guess.”

Somehow, Ante was pretty sure that this international break would be anything but pleasant for him.

In the distance, sirens were flaring.

 

* * *

 

By the time the fire had been put out and the police had finished questioning the team, hotel staff and other guests, dawn was breaking. The air was chilly and filled with the acidic scent of burnt wood and smoke. Ivan, crouched down in front of the taped barrier the firefighters had put up a safe distance away from the hotel, felt more dead than alive. His head was spinning slightly and his eyelids were drooping from time to time. But the shock of everything was still etched too deeply into his bones, weighing heavier than his exhaustion.

Luka and coach Dalić were on the other side of the barrier, talking to a pair of cops alongside a small, old man whom he assumed was the manager. The coach was talking, at least, while Luka turned away from them, face pulled into a troubled grimace, and walked over to Ivan. His steps were slow and shaky as if he had difficulties keeping upright.

They hadn’t slept at all last night, not even before the fire had broken out, too concerned about why Andrej and Ante hadn’t shown up yet. Thinking of the latter and recalling staring at his face and seeing  _through_  it… Ivan shuddered. He had been completely clothed from shoulder to feet, making it look like a headless body was standing in front of him. It was definitely a sight that needed time to get used to - although, he hoped they wouldn't be forced to due to Ante's complicated situation.

 _Nothing else works_. It didn’t make any sense to Ivan. He had never met nor heard of anyone whose quirk couldn’t be handled by the usual suppressors – at least for a specific amount of time. His mind still refused to grasp the possibility that a quirk which explicitly needed medication to be suppressed actually existed. And the fact that Ante had to use something to suppress it permanently meant he couldn’t control it at all, didn’t it? Had he ever been able to switch it off? Or was it like a rare mutant-ability, passively active because it manifested in his physical appearance? Though, Ivan had only ever seen those in the form of altering a person’s appearance – animal or extra body parts; but even on those specific suppressors worked. This didn't exactly fit in.

 _I need more data_.

“-van? Ivan!”

He blinked those thoughts away. “What?”

Luka squinted at him, a thoughtful edge to the grim line of his mouth. “What are you thinking about so hard?”

“Ante,” he said quietly. “And everything else I guess.”

With both his hands on his hips, Luka let his gaze wander, rocking back and forth on his heels. Agitated. Tensed. Still wobbly on his feet. “As for ‘everything else’ – Mario was probably right.”

Not surprising. A fire of such proportions… It was nothing short of a miracle that there had been no casualties although, thinking about the handful of men and women who had been rescued from within and carried away by ambulances earlier, that might still change. The mere thought was enough to make him feel sick.

In their own case, it had been luck that they had been placed at the other end of the hotel and that Mario had been there. God knew what would have happened if Mario hadn’t forced a way through the wall in their hallway – Ivan could still feel the vibrations from that ringing through his body. Maybe the luck also lied in that Mario was aware of how much control he had over his quirk and used it accordingly. Something of that magnitude could backfire very easily.

“Did they find any proofs?”

“Just, you know. They typical hate message for us monsters,” Luka muttered, still not looking at him and clearly unwilling to repeat whatever that specific message entailed.

“You’re not monsters,” Ivan huffed.

Luka rolled his eyes. “ _I_  know.”

 _Do you?_  Ivan bit down in his tongue, forcefully cutting off that question. He didn’t have the strength to argue right now. Some people simply were sick, though, weren’t they? What kind of hatred could be strong enough for someone to be willing to take another person’s life? Including those whom they didn’t hate; their team had quirkless members, the hotel staff was quirkless, the few other guests too. Or had this been a mere warning only? He just couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

“Fucking lunatic.”

Luka hummed in agreement. “The police will take care of it.”

Or try, maybe pretend to. For some reason, they hadn’t seemed overly keen about this case, at least in Ivan’s perception. But he refrained from commenting on it, the coach should know what he was doing in this regard. Besides, the police had managed to keep any media circus far away, and Ivan was glad for that small mercy.

“So. Ante?”

With a tired sigh on his lips Ivan rubbed over his pounding forehead. When he looked at Luka, the other man kept the eye-contact this time, his eyes darkened by worry. “I have no idea what to say about him. We’ll have to see what can be done.”

Though, the consumption of who knew what kind of substances for over a decade had to have messed up his body horribly. Maybe that was where he needed to start with the educational part of this international break: gather data from all of the quirks within the team to form a better picture of how they could start to gain control over them, and also get their medical histories. It wasn’t something he would be able to do all by himself, he realized with apprehension.

“It sure sounds like I’ve started some sort of horrible chain reaction.”

Ivan frowned at Luka, partly grateful for the distraction yet, partly frustrated with there this conversation was going. “Ante’s condition is not your fault. Neither is the fire, for that matter.”

Unimpressed, Luka raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching downward. “I highly doubt his meds conveniently malfunctioned around this specific time. He probably went off them after revealing his quirk.”

He couldn’t completely disagree with that. “But it was his choice, you didn’t force him. Stop being ridiculous.”

Maybe he understood what Ivan was saying, maybe he was too tired to argue or even feel bad, but Luka didn’t say anything and instead, held out his hands for him. He took them and let himself be pulled to his own shaky feet. “Let’s get everyone ready to leave.”

“What about out belongings?”

Luka briefly glanced over his shoulder. “Will be collected but it could take some time. They’ve also found Ante’s phone from Andrej's car - which is ruined, by the way.”

 _Better the car than them_. “How do you know it’s Ante’s?”

Luka shrugged. “His last message was from a Jović.”

Ivan smiled teasingly. “Did you  _read_  his messages?”

“I just checked to see whose it could be,” Luka murmured and pushed him away. “C’mon. The sooner we’re in the bus, the sooner I can sleep.”

Getting everyone into the bus, though, would be a challenge they realized once they saw the clutter of their boys: Ivan wasn’t sure why but Brozo, Mateo and Josip had thrown themselves over Dejan as if in a goal celebration, and that positions couldn’t be comfortable for anyone. Down at their feet, right in front of the bus, most of the others were pressed closely together, on top and over each other, to fit the two blankets they had – sound asleep. He couldn't even say who was who and where they begand and where they ended. At their front, Mario was wide awake but lost in thoughts, deeply enough for him to allow Domo to misuse one of his shoulders as a pillow and Ante the other one while Tin was sprawled over his legs without the blanket he had gotten from Ante earlier.

What a mess.


End file.
